


Two halves of a whole (idiot)

by Born This Gay (Sinpie_Senpai)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of love songs, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant Use of Alcohol, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe Florist Crowley is a real tag but Florist Aziraphale isn't, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, Love at First Sight, M/M, Pining, Slow Romance, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, sappy as heck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-13 15:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinpie_Senpai/pseuds/Born%20This%20Gay
Summary: In which Aziraphale owns a flower shop, Crowley is a pine tree, and everyone else just wants them to kiss already.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The gorgeous artworks for this fic are created by the very talented [scribblepuffs](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com/) and [katiesimrell](https://twitter.com/katiesimrell/). You can also find scribblepuffs' instagram [here](https://www.instagram.com/scribblepuffss/)
> 
> Many thanks to my mom ;)  
[UzbekistanRules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UzbekistanRules/pseuds/UzbekistanRules)  
for the beta and constant support. Without them, this work would not exist at all.
> 
> This work is part of the /r/Good Omens minibang event! It has been an absolute joy and torturous agony working on it. I still can't remember exactly how many people I sacrified to Satan to finish it.
> 
> Enjoy!

There's a flower shop across the street, and Crowley has been eyeing it for months. He just can't help it.

([Katie's illustration](https://twitter.com/katiesimrell))

The shop is beautiful, arguably the most beautiful shop with the most verdant flowers in the whole of London, but not the kind of purposefully, deliberately made to appeal to a specific profile of customers kind of beautiful. Its aesthetic is that one (an extremely lovable man, Crowley might add) simply gathered everything he loves - tea, old books, all kinds of antique, regency silver snuff boxes - and arranged them around the whole store, with flowers and plants to fill in the spaces, and that, that is Eden Flower Shop. It's a messy, cozy, serene place where the genuinely nice owner will serve you tea and give your children candies with a smile that is bright enough that the sun seems pale in comparison. Both the shop and its owner are very, very loved. By one very, very smitten Anthony J.Crowley.

"You are a completely hopeless pinning idiot," says Anathema, once again unfortunately dragged along so Crowley will appear less like a completely hopeless pinning idiot while he strategically spends the whole afternoon gazing longingly through the flower's shop glass windows from the cafe across the street. "Just go over there and ask him out already! It’s been like 6000 years!"

"6  _ weeksss!" _ Crowley hisses back at her, still not looking away from the glass window where a precious view is presenting itself before him - the shop's owner is doting over a Viper's bowstring hemp, gently stroking its long, lush leaves with a look of soft endearment on his face and Crowley is willing to trade his left nut to be in that plant's spot right now. Anathema makes a  _ face _ , which he conveniently ignores.

"It will be 6000 years if you keep this up!" She rolls her eyes. "Please, for the love of everything holy and unholy, just  _ go _ !"

"I can't jussst go!" Crowley finally turns around to look at her, not because he particularly wants to but because the shop owner has gone into the back room to fetch his tea and a book. Crowley knows because it's tea time and it's not like he has been memorizing his habits or anything. "What if he's  _ straight? _ "

" _ Please!"  _ Anathema snorts, "He looks gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide."

Crowley would very much like to disagree with such a crude description but across the street, the shop owner is back, carrying his tea in one hand and a book in another. He will then move to the table in the middle of the shop to read it, surrounded by flowers that never seem to wilt and plants that sway subtly without any wind. Curly pale blonde hair frames his face, making him look like a small, soft, slightly pudgy angel. So lovely and precious. There's nothing Crowley wouldn't do to be right there with him, to be permitted to place his head in his lap, and have those fingers stroking his hair gently while he drifts off into a peaceful afternoon nap. Next to Crowley, Anathema gives him a look of disgust and utter despair, knocking back her entire drink, then standing up with determination. When he realizes what is happening, she is already halfway across the street, heading straight for the flower shop. 

Crowley wants to scream and chase after her - maybe, with any luck, he would be able to stop her before she ruins everything; while he also simultaneously wants to slide under the table and disappear for eternity. 

He does chase after her, albeit minus the screaming, and with as much dignity as he could manage, but only after she has gone inside the shop for a long while - long enough for him to gather up his courage and saunter towards the flower shop instead of scurrying off into his Bentley and diving into the Thames - a commendable effort on his part, really. He ought to be given a plaque for it. With all the flair and theatrical drama of a hero walking towards Death, he pushes the door open, expecting the worst of it - Anathema has had more than enough time to tell the charming shop owner about everything he has done, how he has been practically lurking around the flower shop like a creepy, lovesick stalker. Crowley is ready for scared, disgusted looks or cruel, cold rejection - probably a restraining order. He will then lock himself inside his flat and drink himself into a coma, and maybe in his next life he'd be born a plant so that at least he could be close to his love's desire.

Except that it doesn't happen - none of it, actually. When he walks in, the bell on the door jingles merrily, and the stop owner turns away from his conversation with Anathema. As soon as his eyes land on Crowley, they light up with recognition.

"Oh," he says, literally beaming so brightly Crowley would have gone blind if not for his sunglasses. "It's you."

"It's me?" he asks faintly before realizing how stupid that sounds. Clearing his throat, he tries again, doing his best to sound natural and not like his heart is currently doing the Hustle dance in his chest. "You remembered?"

"Of course I do!"

Anathema gives both of them a look that conveys a very unmistakable  _ 'what???' _ Just like that, with exactly three question marks. 

"Oh, he come by occasionally, buys some flowers. Sometimes just browsing." The shop owner explains, "I remember the sunglasses."

"Oh, that's good, then." Anathema smiles, but the corner of her mouth twitches in the particular sort of way which screeches at Crowley  _ 'Then why haven't you asked him out you useless gay?!' _ "I was just talking to Mr. Aziraphale here about how you’re planning to freshen up your flat with some plants, and he's very delighted to lend you some wisdom. I'll leave you to it, then."

Before any of them could blink, she disappears out the door. Crowley decidedly stares after her because it seems to be the best and less awkward way to avoid looking at Aziraphale. A few moments of silence passes, before Aziraphale breaks the ice. 

"I haven't gotten the chance to properly introduce myself," Aziraphale offers his hand, smile still bright and the blue of his eyes even brighter. "Aziraphale. I own this shop, as you probably know."

"Crowley." He hesitates a little before taking Aziraphale's hand, because as stupidly lovesick as he is, Crowley isn't going to pass the chance to innocently touch his heart's desire. "Anthony J.Crowley." He probably squeezes it a bit longer or tighter than necessary, but Aziraphale doesn't comment on it. Instead he asks, "What does the J stand for?"

"Eh…" Crowley shrugs, "It's just a J, really."

"Oh." A tiny quirk of lips that makes Crowley inevitably think about how much he wants to kiss Aziraphale, right on that corner of his mouth, "So, what kind of plant are you looking for?"

  
  


*****

  
  


Crowley wasn't actually looking for  _ anything _ when they first met. He had a date with… - he didn't really remember anymore. Anyway, he had a date, and he thought some flowers would be nice, or something, so he stopped at the first flower shop on the way there. 

He didn't know what he expected. He certainly didn't expect to open the door to a... if he had to describe it, he suddenly felt like Alice in Wonderland. 

Any respectable flower shop would have their flowers and plants organized neatly into zones for optimal browsing, with sappy stories about flower’s origins and meaning printed on pretty tags, clear, shiny glass vases, and retro-looking signs that said "SPECIAL PRICE" or "HOT SALES" or something along those lines. Plus a rack that displayed every kind of card for every possible special occasions one might find themselves stumble upon. 

This particular store had no actual order or system in how the flowers and plants were arranged - antique vases and pots and chairs and tables and shelves without any kind of unity, with the occasional appearance of snuff boxes (why), hardcovers, all manner of antique trinkets, candy jars, and a cup of tea with angel wings for handle was left forgotten on the counter next to the most ancient cashier machine he had ever seen in his life. The whole place felt so  _ personal _ that it couldn’t be purposefully decorated like that for aesthetic. Crowley wondered if he had accidentally wandered into a stranger's house, mistaking it for a flower shop in his haste. He decided to show it to Anathema, and didn't notice that someone had appeared from the backroom while he was texting on his phone. 

"Hello," a gentle voice jerked him away from the phone screen, "How may I help you, dear?"

Crowley then promptly drop both his phone and his heart on the spot in quick succession. 

Crowley couldn't remember how he handled things afterwards, only that he somehow must have done it (and hopefully did not make a complete fool out of himself when he was at it). When he came to, he was sitting inside his Bentley, dumbfounded, with a bouquet of blue aster in the next seat. Crowley vaguely remembered buying them simply because  _ He _ was holding them, and suddenly they had looked like the only suitable choice, the most gorgeous flowers on Earth. But not as gorgeous as  _ Him _ . Their soft blue reminded Crowley of those beautiful, perfect eyes, and Crowley wondered why anything, anything at all ever put on the color blue when those eyes had already existed and outshone them all. 

He then promptly called and dumped his date, steering the Bentley at 100 mph in central London back to his flat, and proceeding to drink himself into a stupor while mulling over the bouquet of aster.

The kind, blue-eyed gentleman had picked up his phone and returned it to him then. His heart, however, couldn't get up from the floor ever again.

  
  


*****

  
  


After a pleasant conversation in which Crowley tries his best to come up with believable ideas about his-sudden-need-of-house-plants while being efficiently distracted by the way Aziraphale's lips move and his dazzling smile and the lovely crow's feet around his blue, blue eyes, the Viper’s bowstring hemp ends up going home with Crowley. His heart doesn’t. It seems to be very adamant in settling down right there in the flower shop and refuses to budge even an inch.

  
  


*****

  
  


Crowley waits a respectable amount of time (several days) to drop by the flower shop again ( _ officially _ drop by, anyways). He's a little disappointed when it isn’t Aziraphale that greets him, instead it’s one of his assistants - the young man with messy hair and glasses that always looks like he has no idea where he is and what he is doing at all. He attempts to chat Crowley up for some flowers, trying to turn on some of the lights so he can "have a better view at them", and somehow succeeds in making every electric device in the store shut down with the simple flip of a switch. As he starts to panic, Crowley feels obliged to sit the young man down before he destroys anything else. 

"Get away from that!" says Crowley, in the same moment Aziraphale frantically rushes out from the back room. "Newt, I told you to stay away from those switches!" 

When their eyes meet, Aziraphale's face softens. "Oh, Crowley! Welcome back!"

"It's nice to see you too, Aziraphale." He can't help the little smile on his face.

"Sorry you have to see this! Just a little… mishap. I'll go check the breaker." Says Aziraphale, "Would you be a dear and mind the shop for me while I do? I’ll be right back." 

“Yeah, no problem.” Crowley nods, “Just, go... do whatever it is that you have to do.”

“Oh, oh, thank you.” With the way Aziraphale  _ beams  _ at him, Crowley is willing to even commit murder for him, let alone minding the little flower shop for a moment. “I’ll be back in five minutes, promise. Please don’t let Newt touch anything!”

Aziraphale disappears again to wherever the breaker is supposed to be, and Crowley glares at all the plants and flowers in the shop in warning. They aren’t his, per se, but if they know what’s good for them, they had better not dare to wither or shrivel or - Satan help him - grow  _ brown spots _ while he is taking charge of the store in Aziraphale’s behalf. Some of the plants seem to hastily stand a little bit straighter.

There is a pathetic groan behind him.

Crowley turns to stare at Newt, who is wearing the kind of face one has when they know their boss is  _ seconds _ away from ordering them to clean their desk and get the fuck out. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why this keeps happening. I was just trying to-”

Over their heads, the light bulbs flicker on with a final blink of light, before completely going off for goods. The coolers wheeze - the kind of choked wheezing one does when they are in their death throes - before they, too, go still. 

“Oh dear,” mourns Newt miserably.

“Oh dear,” emerging Aziraphale from behind the door of the back room, “I’m so sorry, Crowley, I’m afraid we’ll have to close early today. And tomorrow, maybe.” He twists his fingers together in distress, “I’m afraid it might take several days to find out the problem and then get all of this fixed.” He makes a vague gesture towards, well, everything. Behind Crowley, Newt seems to be trying to shrink as small as a man of his height and build possibly can. 

“The plants will be fine, but the flowers - oh the flowers!" Aziraphale laments, his eyebrows crunch together in dismay, “They won’t last that long. Oh the poor things! They'll wilt before anyone has the chance to buy them!”

“Aziraphale…”

“Oh, you can buy them now, of course, if you still need them.” Aziraphale doesn’t seem to hear him. He starts pacing back and forth, murmuring to himself, lost in thought. “Maybe we can move them to the front of the shop and give a discount. Better someone takes them before...”

“Aziraphale!  _ Angel _ !” Crowley says louder, attempting to get a word in. It gains its desired effect instantly and causes both Aziraphale and Newt to turn toward him with bewilderment. Crowley himself is also bewildered. He has only ever dared to regard Aziraphale as  _ angel,  _ fondly, in his head and heart. He didn’t mean to let that slip! Damn force of habit! (or his luck! Or whatever that makes it happen!)

“Right.” Coughs Crowley, trying for a quick deflect. “I- uh- actually have some connections that are useful for these kinds of situation. I can give them a call - they'll come over and get everything sorted out and fixed up."

"Really?" Aziraphale brightens up, before quickly deflates. "Oh, but I don't know how extensive the damage is. An-and a service call like that tends to be expensive. I-"

"Let me just call them first, see how much they quote. I'm a regular customer so I can get special discount. Just a moment!"

Crowley walks out to make the call and absolutely abuses everything he has at his disposal to drive the hardest bargain the electrical company has ever encountered.

"I can't do that." Hastur grumbles through the phone, "You are literally asking us to work overtime for free, here!"

"Not for free! I told you I just wanted you to quote him a 'sssspecial' discounted price." 

"Tell him he can dream about it." Says Ligur, voice a bit muffled. He's probably right behind Hastur, listening on in the conversation.

Well, time for a little demonic miracle.

"Business's good?" Asks Crowley purposefully. Before they answer, he continues. "How many contracts and projects did you get this year because of me, huh?" 

"Not because of  _ you!"  _

"Think whatever you like, Hastur. We both know those rich customers only came because  _ I _ recommended your service. Listen, I think we have a good thing going on here, you know, between you and me." Crowley examines his nails, voice innocent. "Anyways, I get it. Maybe I'll call Heavenly Electric instead. I'm pretty sure that Gabriel will be very eager to give me a good price. My customers love him, you know. I have a feeling we'll get along  _ really  _ well _ . _ "

There is a meaningful, loaded moment of silence before it's Ligur's voice again, irritated but clear. He probably took the phone from Hastur.

"You drive a  _ very  _ hard bargain, Crowley. Fine, we'll be there."

"I knew I could always count on you guys!" Crowley exclaims dramatically with a victorious grin. He returns inside the shop to inform the currently agonizing Aziraphale (and a very despaired Newt) that his "friends" will be here soon and they are  _ such  _ kind people that they are very touched by Aziraphale's predicament, so they will work overnight to get the shop fixed by tomorrow morning. When he quotes the unbelievably cheap fee, Aziraphale practically  _ melts _ on the spot.

"Oh, Crowley, my dear! I can't tell you how grateful I am…" 

"It'sss nothing." Crowley says, but it comes out a little strained. He suspects that he's blushing - he just can't help it, not with the way Aziraphale is looking at him. At least he still has his sunglasses on.

"No, I mean it. You don't know how much this means to me…" Aziraphale's eyes are fond, a relief, grateful look on his face. Then, unexpectedly, Aziraphale gently takes both of Crowley's hands in his. As Crowley is about to vibrate out of his skin, Aziraphale smiles, cheeks flushed, and squeezes his hands tightly. 

"Thank you." He says softly with a candor so sincere and affectionate it steals Crowley's breath away.

At that moment, he knows that he will do anything, everything, for Aziraphale. 

  
  


*****

  
  


Aziraphale has something on his mind. Crowley can tell from the way he's wringing his hands, how he has been watching Crowley discreetly when he thinks Crowley's not looking, how he's worrying his bottom lip (and making Crowley imagine  _ things _ \- all of which are embarrassingly about how he wants to kiss Aziraphale and worry that bottom lip for him). Before he can't stand it anymore and do something he'll regret - like crossing the short distance between them and kiss Aziraphale for real, Crowley decides to deal with it. When Aziraphale steals another glance, Crowley turns away from the Devil's Ivy he's inspecting and catches him red-handedly. Aziraphale immediately blushed.

"Do I have something on my back?" Asks Crowley, innocent enough.

"Oh! N-No. Of course not." Aziraphale stutters, "You look--you look absolutely tickety-boo!"

Crowley dips his chin so he can stare at Aziraphale over the frame of his sunglasses, lifting an eyebrow. Aziraphale gulps. 

"Oh, it's just- I do apologize, my dear, if I seem rude and creepy, I just- "

"Just?" Asks Crowley, and Aziraphale shuts up. "Just what, angel?" Crowley pointedly holds his gaze.

(After his accidental slip-of-tongue, Crowley has decided to regard Aziraphale as  _ angel _ whenever he likes, with the self-possessed air of someone who goes around calling certain florists  _ angel _ all the time. His logic is that it's not embarrassing if he doesn't act like it's embarrassing. Besides, Aziraphale calls him  _ my dear _ all the time, so it's only fair. Pot-kettle and all that.)

"Oh, I just- I haven't thanked you properly for the huge favor you did for me the other day, and it has been weighing on my mind."

"I told you, it was nothing."  _ I will do anything for you.  _ "Besides, you did thank me."  _ You held my hands _ . _ And made my heart almost stop. _

"I feel like a mere thank just can't express my gratitude, and--well, you are so kind to me, Crowley, and most helpful." Aziraphale sighs, "I want to do something for you in return, but I can't come up with anything."

"You are helping me choose the right house plants." Crowley points out.

"Well, yes, it's my  _ responsibility _ . If you're buying my plants, I'm not going to let you overwater them, under-fertilized them, or put them in a sheltered spot with no light at all. Oh, it will be a complete  _ nightmare _ ." Aziraphale rolls his eyes, "No, I'm thinking about something else. Something more personal, perhaps."

"Well," Crowley returns his attention to the Devil's Ivy, which seems to be trembling a little under his scrutinizing gaze. "You can always invite me out to dinner." He shrugs.

There's a moment of silence during which Crowley freezes up, belatedly realizing what he has just practically suggested.  _ Crap.  _

Then, he hears, "Oh, that's perfect, actually."

"What?" Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale, eyes wide. He's not sure if he has heard it right.

"Will you be free this Thursday night?" Aziraphale has this small, meaningful smile on his lips, but Crowley's brain is too cross-wired to comprehend what kind of secrets might be hidden behind it.

"I--yes." He can't recall his schedule at the moment - his brain is still trying to catch up - but whatever he has scheduled that night, it's being cancelled without even a glance.

"Great! I know this little restaurant that does  _ remarkable _ things to oysters. Oh, are you allergic, by the way?" 

"No." Says Crowley, faintly. He  _ feels  _ faint, not unlike someone who missteps on the stairs and suddenly find themselves in another dimension where their love's desire has just asked them out on a date just like that.

"So, meet here at 7?"

"Yes." Crowley still feels very far away from the conversation. He has to be dreaming.

"That settles it, then!" Aziraphale claps his hands together happily, "Now, I see you have been looking at the Devil's Ivy for a while. It's a popular choice if you're interested in vines. But if you want to go for something with a more unique look yet still easy to care for, I would recommend the String of Pearls…"

Crowley can't remember the rest of the conversation. He remembers getting inside his Bentley, hitting the gas pedal and driving back to his flat screaming.

  
  


*****

  
  


To say that Crowley is nervous is an understatement. 

He has gone for simple tonight: all black except for the grey skinny tie, with regular tight-fit jeans. A snake belt and snake-skin shoes complete the iconic look: Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Except that he doesn't feel Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He feels like he could vibrate out of his skin at  _ any moment _ while he waits for Aziraphale in front of the flower shop. There's a little "Closed" sign with tiny angel wings on the door; the light is dim, and the counter is empty. If Crowley strains his ears, he can hear the faint melody of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No.2 from deep inside. Never been a big fan of classical music himself, but when some of your customers are (or like to pretend to be) you have to pick up a thing or two to prevent the awkward silence in conversations.

Aziraphale is punctual. At exactly 7, he appears. Crowley waves at him through the glass window, and Aziraphale's face instantly lit up. With a casual smile, Crowley opens the car door for him, hopefully appearing more confident than he feels. 

([scribblepuffs' illustration](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com/post/188287320833/while-hes-working-aziraphale-always-wear-a))

While he's working, Aziraphale always wear a cream apron over simple white shirt, with a tartan bow tie and matching tartan pants. Tonight he has replaced the apron with a cream coat, and thankfully abandoned the tartan pants for something more plain, matching the milk chocolate color of his waistcoat. The bow tie, however, stays on. Aziraphale looks like everything Crowley has expected him to look like - a delicious vanilla ice cream sundae with a cherry on top, and all that. But while Crowley would be very glad if it's on the desert menu tonight, Aziraphale doesn't seem like the type to fuck on the first date, and that's fine with him. The only mishap is that the moment the car switches on, it starts to yowl:

_ "I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things _

_ We can do the tango just for two _

_ I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings _

_ Be your Valentino just for you." _

Crowley literally punches the Stop button to hide how embarrassed he is. Fortunately, Aziraphale just smiles and reads him the address of the restaurant.

The oysters are indeed remarkable, Crowley has to admit, even though he spends most of the meal eating sparingly, nursing his wine glass and watching Aziraphale eat. It's kind of difficult to focus on dinner anyways, what with the way Aziraphale sucks the meat between his lips and lets out soft, delighted, _outright_ _illegal_ sighs and moans that can tempt even the most virtuous saint. And Crowley is no saint, so he's having a very hard time trying to look like someone who is _not_ having filthy, vivid fantasies about his dining partner and what other kinds of soft, delighted, illegal noises he can make. 

"The wine selection certainly needs some improvements, if you ask me," says Crowley, pouring himself another glass and topping off Aziraphale's. They have been having a mellow, easy conversation going on which is quite helpful in distracting Crowley from his traitorous imagination. "But the oysters definitely make up for it."

"Oh, I know.  _ Laurent Perrier  _ is a classic, but personally I prefer  _ Muscadet sur Lie."  _

" _ Muscadet sur Lie!"  _ Crowley exclaims, "Finally, a man with taste!" He lifts his glass in the gesture of a toast, and drinks it whole. 

Aziraphale has finished his plate, and is now sneaking glances at Crowley's still half-full one. Crowley nudges it towards him without a word.

"Oh no, I couldn't. You have hardly eaten anything, my dear!" Aziraphale replies politely. 

"I'm full." Crowley lies easily. He doesn't mind letting Aziraphale have his oysters if it makes the other man happy. "You can have them. It'll be a waste otherwise. They are really good oysters."

"Well, if you say so..." Aziraphale gives Crowley a final hesitating glance before pulling the plate towards himself. He brings an oyster to his mouth, savoring it with a little appreciative hum. Crowley would have continued enjoying his little free show of Aziraphale's sensual eating, except Aziraphale picks up another oyster, and offers it to him. He inclines to decline, but how could he possibly say no to the joyous, hopeful look on Aziraphale's face? 

Feeling a little brave and mischievous, he leans over, and eats the oyster directly from Aziraphale's hand. He chews on it slowly before swallows; the very tip of his tongue darting out to lick the last bit of juice from his bottom lip.

Aziraphale stares. 

"Thank you, angel." He says, low and sultry, gazing at Aziraphale through his dark glasses. The florist blushes quite visibly and quickly returns to the oysters. Crowley's lips quirk up at how positively adorable he is.

They ease back into their previous comfortable conversation. As it turns out, Aziraphale  _ hoards _ things: he lets it slip when he tells Crowley about his collection of vintage alcohol, old books, and all kinds of knick knacks - which explains why the flower shop is the way it is. Crowley likes how passionate he is when he talks about things that he likes - the faint blush on his cheek and the giddiness in his voice. Crowley's knee sometimes brushes Aziraphale's under the table, and everytime it happens Aziraphale does the little, unreadable thing with his lips, before moving away, so Crowley would also move his leg back, only to find that their knees inevitably brush again a while later.

"A designer! I should have guessed!" Aziraphale marvels on the way back to the Bentley, "You certainly look the part!" 

"What do you mean I ' _ certainly look the part' _ ?" 

"Well, the way you-- it's just sort of- "

"Sort of what?"

"I mean, the whole thing with how you--" Aziraphale stammers and makes a vague gesture in the air.

"How I what?" 

They have reached the car, but Crowley purposeful brushes past Aziraphale to block the door of the passenger seat from him. Aziraphale sends him an exasperated look. Crowley smiles back.

"How I what?" He lifts one eyebrow, still smiling wickedly. "Tell me."

"You are just teasing me now!" Aziraphale accuses.

"No, seriously, angel, I'm genuinely curious."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale says without any real bite, so Crowley doesn't move.

Aziraphale regards him for a moment. His lips does the thing again - the same thing he does when their knees brush under the table, then he says. "I'll tell you next time." 

"Next time?"  _ There will be a next time?  _ "Really?"

"Really." Smiling, Aziraphale nods. A perfect picture of innocence. "Trust me. I'm an ' _ angel _ !'"

"Now that's just low." Crowley laughs anyways and moves to open the car door for him. "But I get to choose where we'll go next time."

"Fair." Aziraphale says with something very closely resembling fondness in his voice.

  
  


*****

  
  


Next time turns out to be four days later. Crowley books a table at the Ritz for them. He finds out that Aziraphale always eats like _ that _ \- with all the illegal bits of soft gasps and content sighs and happy moans - simply because he appreciates good food like no one ever has. Crowley firmly believes that it's a kind of unprecedented wondrous torture devised solely to vex him, and he has taken up on battling it with whatever kind of alcohol he can get his hands on at that moment. He keeps himself from actually getting drunk, however, because he has to drive Aziraphale back to the shop, and he would prefer his angel safe and sound. 

Crowley also discovers that he and Aziraphale both like theater. They quickly engage in a heated conversation about Shakespeare, and by the end of it Aziraphale has managed to convince Crowley to go see Hamlet with him using both the power of his broad knowledge and his charm towards Crowley.

"Just this one! I'm not going to see Macbeth or any others of his gloomy ones." Crowley says with immovable determination. 

He ends up going to see Macbeth and others of Shakespeare's gloomy ones with Aziraphale anyways, because… Well, because it's  _ Aziraphale _ and he can never seem to be able to say no to the man. Because he enjoys spending time with him. Because if his eyes ever accidentally glazes over a particularly tragic part, Aziraphale would be next to him, sniffling quietly. 

It's also because during one of these moments, Crowley might or might not have sneakily and daringly placed his hand over Aziraphale's.

None of them says anything - because it will be rude, of course, in the middle of a play. They don't even look at each other - or at least, Crowley doesn't. He stays absolutely still, terrified that even the tiniest movement would shatter this moment - Aziraphale will pull his hand back, like he always move away when their knees brush under the table. After what feels like an eternity, and Aziraphale's hand stays exactly where it is, Crowley takes a deep breath and gently, carefully entwines their fingers.

Aziraphale doesn't move away. They sit in silence, holding hands, and it's enough for Crowley's traitorous heart to do the mushy squeezing thing that makes his throat tighten up. 

When they leave, none of them make any comment about it. And if they happen to notice that they are walking closer to each other, hands and shoulders occasionally touching, they don't say anything about that either. 

And so their days go by. Crowley usually drops by in the afternoon, carrying whatever pastries or sweets that he thinks Aziraphale would like. If he has the time (which he  _ always  _ does when Aziraphale is around the shop), he will stay for tea and a little chat, which more often than not drifting into dinner dates and theater dates and movies dates. There's a small, but significant change between them. Crowley would sometimes lean over to peek at whatever Aziraphale are doing, or reading - breaths ghosting over Aziraphale's cheek, hands barely touching - and Aziraphale wouldn't flinch. Their knees would brush under the table and their shoulders would occasionally lean against each other, but the rush to shy away has faded like it has never existed. A certain number of longing gazes could be caught from between tastefully draping leaves, from behind a strategically lowered book, or over the realm of fashionable sunglasses, accompanied by light blush (Aziraphale) and awkward diversions (Crowley). There's just this certain atmosphere in the shop that feels suspiciously less like spring and unfortunately more like soppy, teeth-rotting teenage pining that so thick it's palpable, and everyone - including the whole staff, regular customers, suppliers, and shop owners from neighboring stores - has opened a betting pool, unbeknown to the main individuals involved. 

In the comforting darkness of theaters and cinema (and on one occasion - St.James Park at night), they hold hands while making absolutely no acknowledgement of it. 

Crowley has said it once, after they have just finished watching _ The Sound of Music _ and are settled comfortably inside his Bentley, going a respective 50 mph: He has asked if Aziraphale would like to go somewhere else with him.

"Why?" Asks Aziraphale.

"Well, the night is still young," He shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and praying that his voice doesn't betray the yearning that he feels. "We can go to a bar, or to a club, or something. Maybe to Primrose Hill, enjoy the night view. Anywhere you want to go." ' _ Preferably somewhere private and dark where many embarrassing words can finally come out in hushed whispers and lonely wandering hands can finally do more than just weaving onto each other'  _ is pretty much implied, and deliberately left unsaid.

_ "Look into my eyes and you'll see _

_ I'm the only one _

_ You've captured my love _

_ Stolen my heart _

_ Changed my life," _

Queen croons into the stretched silence between them. Crowley keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. He doesn't dare to look at Aziraphale, terrified of what he will find, or what Aziraphale will find, the moment they see eye to eye. Time seems to have stopped moving, and so are they.

"Oh no, I can't, I'm afraid. I have to return to the shop." It's spoken so softly Crowley's heart aches _ .  _ "I need to, you know, tend to the plants and preparation for tomorrow."

_ "You can reduce me to tears _

_ With a single sigh" _

"Right." Says Crowley. He hits the gas pedal violently and makes a haphazard turn around the corner because he needs to drop Aziraphale at the shop right this moment before he has a heart attack from having his heart broken. He can feel it welling up inside his chest already, and he-

_ "I could give up all my life for just one kiss _

_ I would surely die _

_ If you dismiss me from your love _

_ You take my breath away _

_ So please don't go-" _

"But-" Says Aziraphale, and Crowley is probably delusional because he sounds almost  _ pleading,  _ "--I happen to have several very nice bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the back that I think we could share." Then he adds, like he has just had an afterthought, "Perhaps we can go somewhere else another time."

Crowley hits the brakes so hard and suddenly that Aziraphale lets out a frightened squeak. "What was that?" 

"Nothing. Nothing."  _ Just my heart almost hopping out of my chest in a sudden fit of rapture _ . "Are you telling me you have been secretly drinking such good wine by yourself all this time and only now thinking about me?" He dearly hopes his sarcasm is stronger than his hopefulness.

"I assume you don't want to, then." Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"I never say anything about declining!" 

Crowley ends up going home really late that night, and many other nights, pleasantly buzzing with alcohol and the remnant of Aziraphale's laugh in his ears. They never go anywhere else - because it would be too private, too many implications, too many words that need to be said and who knows where lonely wandering hands will go wandering off in the dark. So they drink and bicker and yammer on and on about everything but what they really want to say, and if, under the cozy warm blanket of alcohol, if Crowley catches the way Aziraphale looks at him with irresistible glowing cheeks and a twinkling, blurry gleam of  _ fondness _ in his blue eyes, and find his eyes inevitably captured by Aziraphale's lips - pink and wet and invitingly stretched out in an endearing smile - he never acts on it, no matter how painfully he wants to.

But that's fine with him.


	2. Chapter 2

The amount of plants in his flat steadily increases with the frequency of his appearance at Aziraphale's flower shop, to the point that he owns a small garden, now, which he dutifully mists and scrutinizes on a regular basis. 

"I don't understand, angel," Crowley says, lounging on the chair across from Aziraphale's. The florist is indulging himself in his tea and the pastry Crowley has brought him, looking like the embodiment of contentment. It suits him. If possible, Crowley wants to make him look like that all the time. "I did everything you told me to, but they still don't look  _ right."  _

He shows Aziraphale his Instagram, because of course Aziraphale doesn't have an Instagram. The shop's phone still runs on landlines, for God's sake, and the only mobile phone he owns is a black and white Nokia that is so resilient it could bloody well be weaponized, as in you could hit people over the head with it and they'll die and not a scratch on the damn thing. Aziraphale admits he only ever uses it when he has to leave the shop for an extended amount of time, and only to answer phone calls. He doesn't even  _ text _ .

Aziraphale squints at the photos, "I’m afraid I can't see it, my dear. They look perfectly healthy to me. You did an astoundingly commendable job with them!"

"They just--they look  _ nicer,  _ here. More verdant and lively, somehow." And no  _ brown spots _ . "Tell me, what's your secret magic spell?"

"There's no magic spell. I have been told that I have a green thumb - plants just naturally bloom and bloom around me - but I don't think that's the case." Aziraphale says, gingerly taking a sip from his tea. "I simply take care of them, mist them, talk to them - you know, the usual."

"Talk to them?" 

Aziraphale blushes a little. "When I was 12, I had to make a presentation for science fair, so I did a whole research about how spoken words affected the growth of plants. Since then I have taken upon speaking to them on a regular basis." 

"That's fascinating." Crowley contemplates Aziraphale's words with the amazement of someone who has just been revealed the way to decipher God's ineffable plan. "And what do you talk to them about?"

"Ah-uhm…" Aziraphale's eyes flicker away from Crowley's face, suddenly fascinated by the empty space over his left shoulder, "Just-- you know, things…"

"Things like what?"  _ Like me? _ "Like how I 'certainly look the part'?"

Aziraphale sputters over his tea.

"You said you'd tell me, but you never did." Crowley reminds him. 

"I was hoping that you would forget!" Aziraphale mutters indignantly.

"Well, I didn't." Crowley cocks his head with a wide, impish grin. "Go on then, tell me. Now is as good a time as any." 

Aziraphale gives him an imploring look that isn't unlike a cornered puppy. Crowley manages to hold on for exactly ten seconds, which is a totally new record. 

"Fine, you don't have to tell me now, but…" Crowley holds one finger up before Aziraphale can breathe a sigh of relief. "On one condition. We are going to see  _ Mamma Mia! _ , and you must suffer with me through the whole of it."

"You  _ fiend!" _ Aziraphale gasps scandalously, putting his tea cup down. "Absolutely devilish demon, you are!"

"That's how it is! Pick your poison, angel."

They go to see  _ Mamma Mia! _ And end up profoundly regretting it. Aziraphale kind of likes the plot - he always adores happy endings - but they both got haunted by ABBA songs blaring on and on in their heads for days after, and that’s just totally not worth it at all.

  
  


*****

  
  


The shop is oddly quiet when Crowley pushes the door open. Aziraphale isn't always around, but it's strange that his assistants are nowhere in sight as well. He wonders if Eve has already took her maternity leave, which will leave Newt to be the only assistant for the time being.

"Hello?" He peers between the plants. "Aziraphale? Eve? Newt?" 

As he makes his way towards the backroom, Newt bursts out of the door before Crowley can reach for it with the hurried and guilty look of someone who has definitely been engaging in amorous activities just a second ago.

"Does Aziraphale know you have been making out in the backroom?" Crowley asks bluntly because he has never been one for polite. Newt awkwardly adjusts his skewed glasses. "Look, I'm genuinely happy for you, I do, but I don't think it's a good idea to  _ ooohhhh--- _ "

Behind Newt, Anathema steps out, attempting to casually brush her hair back in place. Crowley stares at her, then stares at Newt, then removes his sunglasses to stare at both of them. "Really?"

"You are the last person on Earth to have the right to act all scandalized over this, you know." Anathema rolls her eyes. "We have been dating for as long as you and Aziraphale have, so don't pretend like you are all nice and innocent and have never sno _ oohhh---" _ She catches Crowley's expression. This time she's the one staring pointedly. "Really?"

It's Crowley's turn to roll his eyes.

"Who are you?" Anathema asks in utter disbelief. "What have you done to Anthony J. Crowley?" 

"No. I refuse to do this here." Crowley groans, "Not another word!"

"Fine. We are going back to your flat, and you are going to tell me  _ everything _ !" Says Anathema in a tone that leaves absolutely no room for an argument. She grabs Crowley by the arm and drags him to his own car while Newt ruefully watches with what looks like resigned sympathy on his face.

Several hours later, lounging over Crowley's stylish couch, Anathema slurs into her glass of tequila, "So yo-you're telling me-- you are telling me that you guys have never--that you have only  _ held hands? _ "

"Ssstop making me ssssay it so you can roll over and laugh!" Crowley hisses at her from where he's sprawling out on the armchair. Anathema rolls over and laughs. Scoffing, Crowley take a shot from the whiskey bottle he's holding. "It'ssss not funny!"

Anathema rolls around again so she can snicker at him. "You two love birds are like a couple of pure, innocent virgins!  _ Holding hands _ !" 

"You jest!" For his part, Crowley is definitely the blazing solar opposite of a pure, innocent virgin! He doesn't know about Aziraphale because they have deliberately never talked about that sort of thing, but with the way Aziraphale looks - all soft and precious and welcoming, curly blonde and blue eyes and beautiful smile - he wouldn't be surprised if Aziraphale isn't one. 

"Are you thinking about him?" Says Anathema, "You are thinking about him, aren't you? It's all over your face."

"There'sssss nothing on my face!"

"You always go all soft around the edges when you think about him. It's blatant, painful and so disgustingly sweet to watch that I think my eyes developed cavities." Anathema wrinkles her nose. "Give me that bottle! I need something stronger to cope with all this!"

"No!  _ I _ ’ _ m _ the one that needs sssstrong alcohol to cope with all thisss!" Crowley laments dramatically, "You were sssssnogging  _ Newton Pulsssssifer _ , of all people, in the back room! How the deuce did that happen?"

"Oh, I was-- I was just checking to see if you had gotten anywhere with- with Ezi-Azie- _ blerg _ ! - with  _ you know who _ ! And he was just there!" She hiccups, "And he was cute, in the sorta clumsy, nerdy, clueless way, and you were spending all your time fawning over your precious  _ angel,  _ so I--" She makes vague gestures with her fingers that would clearly mean ' _ there, you have it' _ had she been sober enough to make them less vague. 

"And how wassss he?" 

"He was cool, actually, with all the--all the- occult study I do - we actually went and tried that thing with the full moon and the stars and...and he was cool about the shop too, about all the charms and healing crystals and-and--" She hiccups again, and Crowley can't tell if her blush is from the alcohol or from something else, "I really like him. I just do."

"You ssssound like there'll be a happy announccccement by the end of the week." Crowley muses.

To his surprise, she sits up. "You know, I think there will be. Not by the end of the week, but I think it will happen. I know it will happen."

And Crowley actually puts his bottle down, because it is  _ Anathema _ that is saying it, and Anathema, with her sharp wits and brilliant mind and terrifyingly accurate intuition -even as drunk as she is- is usually right. 

"Whoa," he says with soft wonder, "congratulations."

"Thank you. You'll be the first to be informed when it happens." Anathema smiles, tipping her glass towards him, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You are serious about him." Says Anathema. Crowley stiffens, because as usual, she's right, and they both know it.

"I don't think serious is the right word." Crowley hasn't thought that far,  _ yet _ . He doesn't want to be too hopeful, when the most they have been doing is secretly holding hands in the dark (and touching knees under the table). But his heart has a different idea, which involves fantasies about a nice, cozy love nest surrounded by flowers and smelling like sunshine and Aziraphale. "It's not like I don't want to go  _ there _ with him. I would love to, of course, if he also--" Crowley's tongue just can't seem to find the right words, "I'll go anywhere with him, anywhere he wants to go, and if that means moving at  _ his _ pace instead of mine, then I'm fine with it, too."

"Crowley, if you're both going to be moving at this speed, it'll be 6000 years before you reach  _ anywhere _ with him." Anathema sighs, "Don't you think it's high time you make a decisive move to tell him that you want to--" She takes a gulp of tequila to make the words come out easier, "-that you want to be  _ more _ with him, whatever  _ more _ supposed to be?"

"I don't know." Crowley scowls, but she does have a point. Crowley has considered it countless times - reaching out and pull Aziraphale into his arms, holding him close to his chest as Crowley whispers in his ears about how much he adores him, how much he wants-- 

But to actually do it? And risk losing all of  _ this _ \- dinners with pleasant conversations over wine glasses; sitting next to each other watching theater plays and musicals and movies, hand in hand; the sparkles in Aziraphale's blue eyes and his soft smile and rosy cheeks when he's drunk?

Crowley can't bear thinking about it.

It hasn't been an  _ yes _ \- what they have going on between them - but it definitely hasn't been a  _ no _ , and Crowley doesn't know what to do. 

"You are thinking about gloomy things, aren't you?" Anathema grumbles. "Look at it this way: if it doesn't go well, it still doesn't mean you have to stop being friends. But if it  _ does _ go well, you can have everything from your wildest daydreams, and isn't it a risk worth taking?"

_ You can kiss him as many times as you like, as often as you like.  _ His traitorous heart singsongs helpfully.  _ You can hold him. You can hold his hands. You can place your hand over his knee or on his soft thigh. You can lay your head in his lap and have an afternoon nap with his fingers brushing through your hair. You can- you can-- _

_ You can take off his clothes, in the dark, peeling them off him, layers by layers, until he's naked and open and vulnerable in your arms. He'll be so beautiful then - radiant, splendid, perfect. Soft and pliant. All yours to take. And as you lean in to kiss him, to whispers "I love you" as you worship every inch of his bare skin, he'll smile and reply, "I love you, too." _

  
  


*****

  
  


It's Crowley's turn to choose where they'll go, so he buys tickets for them to an outdoor musical revue - "A Midsummer Night's Dream" will be played at Shakespeare's Globe. It turns out to be one of their rather exciting adventures - there are piñatas, streamers, glitter face paint, pink hair, loads of deely boppers, and giant balloon letters. The actors' costumes are absolutely wild, and it honestly feels more like a festival than an outdoor musical. 

"Did I get all of it?" Asks Aziraphale, trying admirably but quite futilely to brush off all the confetti stuck onto him.

"Nope." Crowley giggles, making no attempt to do the same, despite having streamers all over his hair. "Just leave them! Make you all glittery, like a real 'angel.'"

"There's nothing angelic in being itchy because of confetti." Aziraphale pouts, "Can you check the back for me please?" He turns around.

"Sure." Says Crowley. It's a bit hard to spot all the tiny pieces of plastic and paper with his sunglasses on, so he removes them. He helps Aziraphale dusting off confetti on parts of his body that he isn't quite able to reach, although he purposefully leaves some on Aziraphale's hair because he's anything but nice, and also because he thinks Aziraphale looks absolutely adorable like that. "All done!"

"Thank you, my dear." Sighs Aziraphale, turning back around to smile at him. Crowley notices something sparkling over the tip of his ear, and without thinking, reaching out to take it out of his hair. He looks back at Aziraphale, opening his mouth to make a teasing comment about it, but whatever he is about to say instantly dies on his lips. 

Aziraphale's eyes are fixed on Crowley, big and round and filled with awe, and Crowley finds himself caught like a deer in the headlights.

"Your eyes…" Aziraphale speaks softly. "You have never really showed them to me before."

They stare at each other, unblinking. The way Aziraphale is looking at Crowley,  _ God _ , the way Aziraphale is looking at him. Like he's something marvelous - extraordinary and beyond compare. Like he's the world. It's almost  _ religious _ . Crowley's throat suddenly goes very dry - he remembers while he always has his sunglasses on around Aziraphale, no matter day or night. 

He feels vulnerable without them - vulnerable against those blue, blue eyes: he can see himself in them, his heart laid bare, transparent to his very soul. In that one terrifying, stunning, breathtaking moment, Crowley knows with unquestionable clarity that Aziraphale  _ sees _ all of him. 

The world goes all blurry around the edges. Light and sound and even the darkness dims against the intensity of Aziraphale's gaze. His eyes drop down to Aziraphale’s lips - parted ever so slightly, innocently,  _ invitingly _ \- before flicker back up. He knows that Aziraphale see that, too, and understand its meaning. 

Something shifts in Aziraphale's eyes at the same time something flutters in Crowley's chest. 

Crowley opens his mouth - his lips are wobbling so much, his tongue feels like it's stuck to the roof of his mouth - but with an admirable effort of will (he ought to be given another plaque for it) he manages to find his voice. It comes out strangled, breathless, like a prayer. "Aziraphale…" 

It's enough to jolt Aziraphale out of the trance. 

"S-sorry! I was--" He hastily takes a step back, like he’s been burned, and looks away, but not quick enough for Crowley to miss the expression on his face. 

"Let's go somewhere else!" says Crowley, cutting him off, "It's too noisy here.”

“A-ah, the shop- it’s so far-” 

“My flat. It isssn't far." The words are now rushing out of his mouth beyond his control, tumbling and desperate. "Besides, I want you to see them with your own eyesss.” 

“Them?” Aziraphale asks as they head back to the Bentley.

“Th-The plants! I want you to see what I’ve done with the God’s Breath, haven’t gotten any decent photos put up on my Instagram, surely Newt could open the shop-” He’s blubbering. He’s babbling. At this point, he wishes with all his heart that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Next to him, Aziraphale is silent, his mouth is doing the thing again - the same thing he used to always do when their knees brushed under the table. Crowley knows what he's about to do - like those times, he's about to put distance between them.

"Don't!" Crowley says, holding the car door open, "Angel, just go with me! Somewhere. Anywhere.  _ Please! _ " He's pleading now. He doesn't care.

Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth several times before he finally lets out a trembling sigh. He looks up to meet Crowley's eyes, and holds them.

"Just take me back to yours," His voice is so intimately tender that it takes Crowley's breath away, "That will be fine."

  
  


*****

  
  


The ride back to Crowley’s flat is uncharastically silent except for Queen luling “Under pressure” unironically in the background. Crowley has been keeping it respectively within speed limits until “Good old-fashioned lover boy” starts blaring on, which has hit too close to home for comfort, so Crowley decides that he must get back to his flat immediately before one of them (probably Crowley himself) promptly combusts from secondhand embarrassment. Aziraphale squeaks a little but doesn’t say anything more when he racks up the speed, so for once he thinks they are both in agreement on that front.

Crowley parks the car, then leads Aziraphale into the building. The elevator trip and the short journey through the corridor leading to Crowley’s door drip with tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. By the time they reach the familiar door with a snake doorbell, Aziraphale looks relatively pale - he has been biting his bottom lip and wringing his hands. Overcome with the urge to soothe and protect him, Crowley gently tells him, “Angel, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, a little bit strained, “Just--a tad excited. That’s all” He flashes an awkward smile.

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour. I think the plants will be thrilled to see you again.” Crowley opens the door, attempting to ease the mood. “Then we can pop open that Four Roses Single Barrel Bourbon that I have owned since forever and watch  _ Mary Poppins _ on my couch.”

The tension melts off Aziraphale’s shoulders as he takes a deep breath. He does the wiggling thing with his torso that Crowley has always found endearing before smiles up at him, a lot more relaxed this time. “Sounds marvelous, my dear.” 

Crowley grins, “Or we can always watch  _ Mamma Mia! _ again,” He adds, just because he can. Aziraphale gives him a  _ look _ , which just makes him grin wider, and they step inside Crowley’s flat. 

The place is practically spotless and looks like it’s brought straight out of the latest issue of  _ Minimalism Interior _ . It’s elegantly furnished, the floor is white oak, the furniture varies between different shades of black and white, with the occasional glints of metal decor and some currant red pillows thrown in to balance out everything. Aziraphale spots a rather particularly elaborate throne in his office, and his lips quirk up in an amused smile.

Most of Crowley’s plants are held in the lounge where double glazed windows take up the entirety of one wall, showing a spectacular view of London with the added bonus of supplying the small garden with sunlight. Crowley smirks at the small sound of amazement Aziraphale lets out as he admires the garden: his plants are beautiful and glorious, with shiny, healthy, lustrous leaves - as they should be if they know what’s good for them. He makes his way towards the kitchen and leaves Aziraphale with the plants - which  _ visibly _ sag with relief when Crowley is out of the room. With utmost tenderness, Aziraphale strokes their leaves, checking their health, touching the soil. Pleased with the results, he smiles and murmurs compliments to them. They all seem to try to lean impossibly closer towards him in return.

“Ssstop sssspoiling them, angel,” drawls Crowley, and Aziraphale could swear the plants  _ startled _ . “You must not go soft on them, or they won’t learn anything at all.”

Aziraphale turns around. Holding a bottle in one hand and two glass cups full of ice in the other, Crowley is leaning against the kitchen door’s frame, watching him and the plants with an amused look, contradictory to the mild annoyance in his voice. He has his sunglasses back on, and therefore feels more at ease. 

Aziraphale beams at him. “You really take my advice of talking to the plants to heart!”

“I think it’s an excellent idea.” The look on Aziraphale’s face makes Crowley feel something incredibly mushy squirm inside his chest, so he doesn’t tell Aziraphale that he doesn’t so much talk to them as instilling a cell-deep fear of himself into them. “Care for a drink?” 

“Oh, always.”

They settle down on Crowley’s leather sofa in front of the massive TV, and quickly throw themselves into an argument about what to watch on said TV, because “no, Crowley, we are definitely not watching  _ Mamma Mia! _ or - God help me -  _ The Sound of Music _ again!”

So they watch  _ Mary Poppins  _ while sharing the bottle of bourbon, and later move onto Scotch because Crowley is adamant about watching Doctor Who - which is more than  _ 11 seasons long _ \- and Aziraphale decidedly needs something strong in his system to suffer through the whole thing. It becomes rather hard to keep up after season 3, partly because they are both quite comfortably sloshed, and partly because the guy playing the Tenth Doctor uncannily resembles Crowley and it distracts Aziraphale terribly. Also Crowley keeps spoiling the plots for him, so he doesn’t do as much following the story as ogling the main character the whole time.

“Passss me the bottle,” says Crowley, hissing a little. Having gotten used to his hissing and slurring whenever he’s drunk, Aziraphale gives him the bottle. With admirable precision, Crowley pours himself another glass, only spills about two tablespoons of wine in the process, “He’s about to realize he’s in love with her, but he won’t tell her.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chides.

“It’sss sad, honestly. You can ssssee it from the way she looksss at him that she lovessss him too,” Crowley conveniently ignores it and continues on, “Should have at least kisssssed her once, really.”

Aziraphale is silent, and Crowley takes it as he doesn’t want to do anything to spur Crowley into spoiling the episodes even more, so he stops. Taking slow, small sips from his cup, Crowley wiggles a little so he can sprawl even more on the couch (the fact that he might or might not have moved just a little bit closer to Aziraphle is neither here nor there). Then Aziraphale speaks, “Yes. Yes I think he should have.”

It’s not the comment, but  _ something _ about the way Aziraphale said it that makes Crowley turns to look at him, only to find Aziraphale already looking. His cheeks are rosy from the alcohol and from things that are entirely else. There is something in his eyes that is beautiful, vast, mesmerizing, and makes Crowley feels like he is staring at a nebula. With the utmost gentleness- almost like he’s afraid of scaring a frightened animal away- Aziraphale leans over. Petrified by their sudden proximity, Crowley can’t move. He thinks he stops breathing as Aziraphale’s hand reaches out, carefully taking off his sunglasses.

“I have decided that I hated these. Have always hated them, in fact.” Aziraphale sighs, folding up the sunglasses and setting them aside on the table. “I think you look a lot more dashing without them, my dear.”

“You think?” Crowley gulps. Aziraphale’s face is so close to his own. Too close. He can make out the way Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter ever so slightly.

“Of course.” Aziraphale smiles and cups Crowley’s cheek in his hand, “I love your eyes. They are gorgeous, and they seem to change color the more I stare into them. Hazel eyes, I think that’s what they are called.” 

“Angel...” Crowley rasps out. He can feel Aziraphale’s warm breath on his lips. He knows it’s going to happen and he’s putting all his might into trying to not faint on the spot.

“I like it when you call me that,” murmurs Aziraphale, “Don’t call anyone else that, or I’ll be very, very upset.”

“ _ Angel!”  _ Crowley pleads with every fiber of his being.

Aziraphale leans in and kisses him. 

Crowley could die right there and wouldn't regret any of it. It’s-

It’s warm and sweet, soft and slow, and a tiny bit coy, like Aziraphale. It hasn’t been the first time Crowley has kissed someone, or been kissed by them, but the difference is startling: He has spent so much time imagining, wanting, yearning for this moment, and now when it actually happens, Crowley’s brain is overloaded with sensations and emotions so overwhelming like water crashing over a dam. He thinks he literally shuts down for a moment there, before his consciousness heroically recovers in the face of crisis. With a voice that sounds suspiciously like Anathema’s, it screams ‘ _ kiss him back you gay disaster!’ _

And kiss him back he does.

Crowley’s hands come to wrap around Aziraphale. His nape. The small of his back. Pulling them flush against each other until all the sharp angles of his body conform with the soft curves of Aziraphale’s own. His tongue delicately caresses Aziraphale’s lips, tracing the hard lines of his teeth, the inside of his mouth. The feeling of Aziraphale’s tongue, welcoming and passionate against his own. Aziraphale’s taste entangles with the flavor of the alcohol they have been steadily drinking. Aziraphale melts in his arms, moaning softly against his lips, and it’s the same yet also unlike the kind of moan he lets out when eating good food - soft, delighted, wet, breathy, with just the right tinge of lust that stirs up a hot rush of want in the very pit of Crowley’s stomach. With a desperate groan, he leans closer, completely squishing Aziraphale against the armrest, and yet it’s still not enough. He needs more. He  _ needs _ to have it all. He feels like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t. 

They have to pull back for a moment, because unfortunately they both need air. He can feel Aziraphale’s every breath, hot and humid between the barely inch of space between them, mingling with his own. He can feel the way Aziraphale’s chest undulating against his, how their hearts beating in tandem, in anticipation, urgent and indistinguishable. Aziraphale’s pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips kissed-swollen, clothes disheveled, and looking absolutely delectable. The lovely blush creeps from his face all the way down his neck, disappearing into his collar, and Crowley decides he wants to know just how far it goes down his torso.

It’s easy enough to remove the offending bowtie that standing in his way of getting to Aziraphale’s naked skin, and even easier to unbutton his shirt. He stops after the first three buttons to inhale a much needed intake of air, and it’s ridiculous because it’s not the first time he has sex, Aziraphale isn’t even nude, and yet the mere revealation of that small expanse of smooth skin with just a barest hint of collarbones already renders him breathless.

Under him, Aziraphale makes a soft, pleading whine in the back of his throat, turning his head to the side to expose his neck in a wordless invitation that’s impossible to resist. Crowley presses his lips against the spot just right under his ear and Aziraphale shivers. He slowly kisses his way down, inhaling the scent of alcohol and cologne and sweat, tasting the salt on Aziraphale’s heated skin, feeling the pulse throbbing beneath the skin under his mouth. He wants to savour and worship every inch of Aziraphale, lavish them with his lips and tongue and teeth, to taste him in the most intimate places, to pepper red, swollen marks all over his pale, pristine skin, to wrangle out the most dirty, filthy, illegal noises from the depth of his throat. 

Aziraphale squirms underneath him with impatience, and Crowley nips at his neck in return, eliciting a delicious whimper and a buck of hips. In a move that surprises them both, Aziraphale grabs him and turns them over.

Or that’s what was supposed to happen, if they didn’t have so much alcohol in their system. Instead, the sudden movement causes Crowley to lose his balance and fall off the couch, dragging Aziraphale with him. They both tumble down onto the floor into an undignified heap. The carpet dampens their fall somewhat, but Crowley hits his head against the table’s leg and lets out a loud hiss of pain.

“FUCK!”

“Crowley, language!” Aziraphale still has enough (or not enough) sobriety in him to grumble.

“Not-tickety-boo!” 

Aziraphale pouts. He tries to prop himself up, but fails quite spectacularly, only somehow succeeds in making his face fall flat onto Crowley’s chest. It’s his turn to complain.

“You are all bony!”

“Roll over, then. You are sssoft, you be the pillow.” Crowley absolutely doesn’t want to get up. Aziraphale’s body is pleasantly warm against his side, and his head is still throbbing.

“I  _ was _ the pillow.”

“You made us fall off the couch, you be the pillow.”

Aziraphale is silent, and Crowley thinks that he’s sulking until a snicker escapes him. 

“What?”

“Oh, I have never--” Aziraphale is giggling now, louder and louder, his shoulders shaking with it. “I have never-- snogged someone so hard they f-fall off the couch and hit their head!”

“ _ We _ fell off the couch. Together.” Crowley corrects him, but a small grin blooms on his lips.

“If you had passed out, it’d have been perfect.” Aziraphale snorts, “Imagine the story we could tell with that one.”

“Anathema will absolutely  _ lose  _ it!” Crowley crackles, “ _ Are you kidding me right now, Anthony J. Crowley?”  _ He fakes her voice with a comically high lilt to it, and Aziraphale bursts with laughter. Crowley joins in, and they laugh and laugh, falling back against the soft carpet. They laugh until the corner of their eyes are wet with tears, and Crowley’s sides hurt from it.

“You are ridiculous,” Crowley tells Aziraphale fondly, “That is the biggest failure of a snog ever in my life, and I don’t understand why I’m still talking to you.”

“Then don’t talk.” Aziraphale chides between his giggles, face pressing into Crowley’s chest. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Get off! I’m not being the pillow!” Crowley groans halfheartedly, and instantly regrets it because Aziraphale rolls off of him. He reaches out and pulls the man back. “But I can be the big spoon.” He murmurs quietly, voice softens.

Aziraphale snickers, but he rolls around and snuggles close to Crowley regardless, entangling their limbs and slotting them together like two pieces of a puzzle. He fits his head under Crowley’s chin and drapes an arm across his side. 

“I have a bed, you know.” Crowley says, pressing his nose into Aziraphale’s hair. He's not complaining, just stating a fact.

“Don’t want to move.” Aziraphale sighs. “I want to stay together, like this.”

“So this is alright, then?”

Crowley can hear the soft smile in Aziraphale’s voice. “Yes, Crowley.” He hums sleepily, happily, “This is perfect.”

  
  


***** 

  
  


Crowley wakes up because the sun is directly shining upon his face. Grumbling, he tries to move away, only to realize that he can't. He cracks his eyes open and is greeted by a view full of fluffy blonde hair. Aziraphale is still asleep, face tucked snuggly under Crowley's chin to avoid the sunlight, breathing evenly against his chest. With the utmost care so as to not rouse him, Crowley gingerly reaches for the remote under the table and lowers the blinds, only letting a small space left between the slats so a sliver of sunlight can pass through, illuminating the room with a dim glow. 

Had it been anyone else, Crowley would have waken them up for some lazy sex. He's definitely spotting a morning wood - the result of having Aziraphale’s body pressing so close against his own. But his head is throbbing, and Aziraphale is blessedly warm and soft, still entangled with him. It is whole and perfect. It fills Crowley’s chest with a blissful contentment and for the first time, he realises that it’s everything he has ever wanted in life (except maybe the hangover and the bump at the back of his head and the crick in his neck). So Crowley simply wraps himself tighter around Aziraphale, pressing as much of his body against the other man as possible to soak in his body heat, and placing a kiss on the crown of Aziraphale’s head.

“I love you. Oh, how I love you, Aziraphale.” He murmurs, burying his nose into soft blond hair. He fell back to sleep in mere seconds, dreaming about what (and who) he likes best.

When he wakes again, the space beside him is empty and cold. It’s hollow like a blackhole on the verge of swallowing Crowley in. A discarded tartan bow tie lies forgotten on the floor, near a table leg.

Aziraphale is gone. 

He can't remember if his flat has always been so dreadfully silent. 


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale has been putting a valiant effort into avoiding Crowley for the whole week. He would be surprised - he doesn’t think Aziraphale has it in him - if it hadn’t been so sad. 

“Get up!” Anathema scowls to the miserable huge roll of blanket burrito that is Anthony J. Crowley. He has shouted at his plants, has drunk himself into a stupor in a sad attempt to cope with the lack of Aziraphale in his life, and when none of that worked, he has resolved to a good sulk in his bed, determined to sleep for a century so when he wakes he doesn’t have to face all this. “Get out from under there right now before I have to make you!”

“It doesn’t matter! He wouldn’t _ meet _ me!” Crowley whimpers wretchedly from inside the blanket, “He wouldn’t even _ talk _to me! He doesn’t pick up my calls! It’s over Anathema! It’s over!”

“Like _ hell _ it is!” Anathema growls, “Get out here, Anthony J. Crowley! We are gonna fix this even if it’s the last thing I do!”

Crowley sniffs noisily, but stays curled up. Sighing, Anathema sits down on the bed and pats him gently over the blanket.

“Look, I don’t know what happened, so you’ll have to tell me, but this can’t go on. You both are just torturing yourselves at this point. Newt told me Aziraphale had been just as afflicted as you are. He looks - oh, you both look a complete mess! I have never seen two people as besotted with each other as you two, and yet why are you like this?”

“He must hate me now. I really shouldn’t have--I should have waited for him! If I didn’t push him to come back to my flat-” mumbled Crowley pathetically.

“What happened, then?” asks Anathema patiently. 

“We drank and watched telly - you know, the usual. We were both drunk when h-he kissed me.” Crowley sniffs again, feeling his voice caught, because it’s too painful to remember how wonderful their night together has been and know that he can never have it again. “We snogged on my couch, and fell asleep on the floor. If I had known that k-kissing him would drive him away, I wouldn’t--I wouldn’t have-” Crowley’s voice really breaks this time, and he wiggles closer to Anathema. Her presence comforts him, somewhat.

“Oh Crowley, I don’t think it’s your fault.” Anathema says after a moment of silence, “I think you guys need to talk - like _ really _ talk to each other - instead of this ridiculous cinematic-show-worthy drama you keep putting yourselves in. Frankly, it’s more and more resembling a Netflix series at this point.”

“Didn’t you listen? He has been avoiding me for a whole blasted week.”

“I swear, you guys are both idiots that own one single shared brain cell, and neither of you are using it.” Anathema sighs exasperatedly, “You gonna owe me a big one this time, Crowley, and I expect proper payback at my wedding.”

“_ Wedding _?” Crowley hisses, instantly poking his head out, “What wedding?” but Anathema has already whirred out of the room like a hurricane.

Crowley doesn’t know what she’s going to do about it. Work her occult magic, maybe. He could see her drawing a summoning circle and call forth the power of Satan - or God, or whatever omnipotent being - because as far as he can tell, only a miracle can fix this. And maybe that is what she did, because some time later - he can’t really pinpoint exactly how long, busy wallowing in his own misery as he is - Crowley receives a phone call. He ignores it at first, of course, but they keep calling and the phone buzzes insistently for fifteen minutes. Begrudgingly, he reaches for the phone on the bedside table. 

The name on the screen almost makes his heart stop. He couldn’t swipe it to ‘answer’ fast enough.

“Hi,” he says, definitely too quick and too hopeful, at the same time Aziraphale says, “Hello.”

“How are you?” they both says, again, at the same time. 

“Fine, fine. Just, you know, the usual.” Crowley lies.

“Oh good.” Aziraphale’s voice sounds overly cheerful. He’s worse at lying than Crowley is. “Me too.”

An awkward silence stretches between them, vast and swelling with words unspoken. _ I miss you _ . Crowley wants to say. _ I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back. _But he doesn’t dare to say it. Neither of them do. Instead, Aziraphale asks, gently, “Can I come over?”

  


*****

  


Aziraphale comes over. It all feels so surreal that Crowley remains dazed even as Aziraphale has sit down on his couch, facing him. The couch that they kissed on. Crowley still remembers the feelings of Aziraphale’s lips on his, and he stops himself from diving into the memories of that night because as far as he knows, Aziraphale might be here to put a stop to everything between them, and it will no doubt break Crowley’s foolish heart.

“Um,” says Crowley cleverly, “Care for a drink?” He feels like he’ll need more than several bottles of whiskey to get through this.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley closes his mouth. 

Tension drapes over them both, its weight stifling and heavy on their shoulders. Aziraphale isn’t looking at Crowley - he’s inspecting his own hands purposefully and extensively. Usually, Crowley would have avoided looking at Aziraphale as well, but he hasn’t seen the other man for the whole week. Now that he’s here, Crowley couldn’t help the way he yearns for him. His eyes can’t leave Aziraphale, and what he sees wrings his heart with an ache that’s almost unbearable. 

Aziraphale looks worse for wear. His usual bright, brilliant blue eyes are dull and tired with visible eyebags underneath. His bottom lip is dry and cracked, like he has been chewing on it repeatedly. His skin is even paler than usual, and Crowley can make out faint lines of blood veins on the back of his hands, which are fretting non-stop in his lap. There are small scratches on them, too, which looks like they are caused by thorns. Crowley has never seen them before - Aziraphale has _ always _ been extremely careful and gentle with his plants.

Crowley is about to say something - _ I’m sorry. Let’s stop this. _Or something foolish among those lines. - but Aziraphale beats him to it. “I’m sorry.” 

“Angel, there’s no-- we were _ drunk-” _ Crowley tries, despite something bitter and ugly twisting inside his chest. “It’s nothing.” _ It’s not nothing. It’s not. Oh please don’t do this- _

“N-Not about that.” Aziraphale stammers. Crowley’s heart stops. “I-uh, I don’t regret that.” A fearful yet hopeful look. “Do you?”

“Obviously not!” Crowley springs back to life. “Of course not! Never!” 

“Oh.” The tight line of Aziraphale’s mouth softens, “That’s great, then. That’s great.”

Crowley just gawks at him in disbelief. He is pretty sure Aziraphale is aware of Crowley’s intentions - they have been dancing around each other for _ months! _They have gone to dinners and theaters and God knows how many dates! They held hands! He has assumed that Aziraphale was deliberately keeping things as a standstill between them because maybe he didn’t want to be more than friends, but he didn't want to say it because he was being considerate of Crowley's feelings - which perfectly explained why he left Crowley after that night. If they have been on the same page this whole time, then what’s that whole week of avoidance about? 

“You are sending extremely mixed signals, angel.” Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m confused.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale fumbles with his words, “That--I meant-I---” They evade him, however, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows soon cringes together with frustration and despair. But Crowley is looking at him - he doesn't have his sunglasses on, and his eyes are wide and beautiful and patient and full of hope - and Aziraphale knows he owes Crowley this. He must do it. “I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

He doesn’t mean to shout - it just bursts out of him. Crowley sits back, startled by his sudden outburst. Aziraphale hides his face in his hands. His voice, when it comes out again, is muffled and crumbling. “I am in love with you.” 

Crowley blinks, trying to process what is happening. Something inside his chest is rapidly swelling up, taking all his breath away. Something raw and trembling and vulnerable. He can’t breath. He can’t think. 

“Then why,” The words come out with a lot more bitterness than he meant for it to be, “Why did you leave?”

“I was scared,” says Aziraphale, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, “Oh, angel--” He stands up and crosses over, sitting down next to Aziraphale. His mind is still a wrecked mess - too many things to process and too many feelings and too many questions - but upon the sight of Aziraphale burying his face in his hands, his trembling shoulders, his quivering body - all of it is swiftly overwhelmed by the urge to protect and comfort. He gently takes one of Aziraphale’s hands in his, threading their fingers together. Aziraphale turns his face away, still won’t look at him. Crowley wants desperately to hold Aziraphale’s cheeks in his hands and look into his eyes, kissing him and telling him everything’s okay, but he knows it might be too much for Aziraphale right now. 

“Angel, Aziraphale, talk to me,” He asks, soft and firm, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale sniffs, “I woke up, and you were there. You were asleep. You look rather lovely in your sleep, you know. You were smiling like you were having the best dream. I knew that if I placed my hand on your chest, I’d be able to feel your steady, peaceful heartbeats. If I leaned down to kiss you, and probably wake you, you wouldn’t push me away. You would pull me into your arms and kiss me back. It was perfect. It was everything I had ever wanted. And then--and then fear overcame me.” 

His voice breaks off, like it’s too difficult for him to continue. Crowley bites his lips. _ They felt the same thing. Azirphale felt the same thing _. But there was something else here, something that frightened Aziraphale into running away. Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hands a bit tighter, waiting patiently for him. Aziraphale takes a trembling breath.

“I have always known. It has always been at the back of my mind. But at that time it became too frightening, too real, it overwhelmed me.” Aziraphale made a weak gesture with his hand, “I had to leave. I had to get out before--” 

“What is it?” Crowley pleads quietly, “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll fix it.”

Sighing, Aziraphale turns to look at him. His eyes are wet and reddened. Crowley feels like someone just stabs him through the heart with an icepick. 

“My dear, you are always so kind to me.” Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley’s, holding his palm between both hands. “You are wonderful: Handsome, charming, caring, talented. Even your wicked sense of humour is endearing. Every moment spent with you is the best moment of my life.” It’s almost too much. Aziraphale is saying everything that Crowley wants to hear - everything he dreams of hearing - and yet, his voice is so full of sorrow it makes Crowley’s heart want to weep. “That morning, I realized--I realized that you were everything I wanted, and everything I hadn’t yet known that I wanted, and more than I deserved. You are too good for me.” Tears well up in Aziraphale’s eyes again. Aziraphale’s nails dig deep into Crowley’s hand as his whole body shakes, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in Crowley’s chest. The way Aziraphale is holding onto him, tightly, desperately, with both his hands, like Crowley is his lifeline. He has never seen Aziraphale - sweet, gentle, clever, beautiful Aziraphale - so vulnerable. “I’m just a silly florist in Soho, who likes old books and hoards weird things and talks to his plants like an idiot. I don’t---You deserve better than me, Crowley. You do.”

“_ Angel-” _

“I thought that I was always ready to---I would understand if you leave me, if you grow bored, and I tried to drag it out so you would-- but you were so persistent, so alluring, and before I know it I--”

“Please don’t-”

“I realize I have to let you go, before-- before it’s too late and I can’t bring myself to do it anymore. A-and I already don’t want to,_ oh how much I don’t want to _, but it would be entirely selfish of me to--” Aziraphale closes his eyes as tears continue flowing out, “I shouldn’t- I really shouldn’t be in love with you, but I am. I am. I’m sor--”

Hissing, Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s chin with his other hand, yanking Aziraphale’s face towards him. Aziraphale’s eyes widen momentarily in surprise, and his mouth tries to form words, but Crowley has had enough.

“Aziraphale, I love you more than anything,” he says, “But please, _ pleassse _, shut up!”

Before he can get a word in otherwise, Crowley kisses him. He ignores Aziraphale’s struggles and keeps kissing him, crushing their mouths together. He kisses away Aziraphale’s protests and kisses away Aziraphale’s reasoning, until Aziraphale sags against him, moaning softly into his mouth, defeated and yielding. His lips are wet and cracked and taste like tears. 

“Never-” _ Kiss _ “-say that again-” _ Kiss _ “-That you shouldn’t-” _ Kiss _ “-Love-” _ Kiss _ “-Me.” Crowley growls. Dazed, but apparently still has enough stubbornness left, Aziraphale opens his mouth. Crowley cuts him off, “Also, don’t say sorry again, or I’ll have to kiss you until you stop doing that, again.”

Aziraphale closes his mouth.

“Good.” Crowley sighs, placing a chaste kiss on Aziraphale’s lips as reward before he lets go of Aziraphale’s chin. “I’m sorry that I was rough to you, angel, but I really must stop you there. You are really self-absorbed, did anyone ever tell you that?” 

“Um-”

“Did it ever occur to you to talk to me about some of this--all this thinking you have been doing that I happen to be the most important part of?” Crowley raises a questioning eyebrow, “Maybe ask me what I think, for example?”

“Well, I-I was afraid that you'd laugh at me, or-or get mad--” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley puts a finger on his lips to shush him.

“I’m not mad at you - well, maybe I am a little bit mad at you, but I still want you to talk to me whenever you have these kind of thoughts again, ok?” Crowley wipes the tears of Aziraphale’s face, “So that I can tell you how terribly wrong you are, just like how you are wrong about The Fool in King Lear.”

“I am not wrong about The Fool in King Lear.” Aziraphale pouts.

“Fine, it is still up for debate. But that’s beside the point.” Crowley rolls his eyes, “The point is, these kind of thoughts are unhealthy, angel. And completely, dreadfully wrong. You are sweet and gorgeous - if you knew what kind of fantasies I have had about those delicious thighs of yours, you’d be totally scandalized.” Crowley babbles on even though his face is heating up. He's not great at--well, all this _ talking _thing and he can only hope it won't come back to bite him in the ass later, but Aziraphale needs it right now. Aziraphale needs him, so he shoulders on. "I’m head over heels for you - and that says a lot, because I have standards. Outrageously high standards. And I’m a designer too, so I have good taste as well. So, you know, you are not--not just some florist in Soho who likes old books and food and snuff boxes-" Oh no, he's failing at this, isn't he? Aziraphale doesn't look convinced at all. If anything he looks sadder.

"Crowley, my dear, that's very kind of you to say. It's lovely, really, but I--"

Crowley kisses him again. Aziraphale gives in this time, with only a little bit of halfhearted protests.

“You can’t do that everytime, you know.” He sighs when they part, somewhat helplessly fond.

“I will do that as many times as it takes until you stop all this nonsense of putting yourself down and ignoring the blatant truth that says otherwise.” Crowley puts a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, cradling his face tenderly, like he’s holding something fragile and precious. “Do you know how I fell in love with you?”

Aziraphale perks up.

“This is all rather embarrassing, and you are not allowed to laugh. If you tell anybody else, I’ll run off to Alpha Centauri and you’ll never see me again.” Crowley murmurs, trying for dramatically threatening, and it might have worked if his face isn’t getting redder by the minute. Chuckling weakly, Aziraphale nods his agreement.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley turns his face to the ceiling. He really wishes he had half a mind to put on his sunglasses. “It was love at first sight.” He mumbles to the ceiling. "You looked-- well, you looked like perfection incarnate, glowing like an angel with your soft curls and blue eyes and a dazzling smile, and I was a goner."

He waits for Aziraphale to do something - laughing, gasping, swooning, scoffing, whatever - except that nothing happens for a while until Crowley grows impatient and turns around to look. “What? Say something, angel!”

But apparently Aziraphale can’t say anything. He is frozen in place, bright red, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. He looks so endearing and defenseless, Crowley can’t help but steal a kiss, which makes Aziraphale squeal indignantly and push him away. “Hey!”

“Sorry, sorry, can’t help it. You are really cute and it’s ruining my life because I think about kissing you all the time.”

“I am not cute!” Aziraphale casts his eyes down.

“You are the cutest, loveliest, most precious person I have ever met.” Crowley leans forward, pressing their foreheads together and whispers, with all his heart, into the tiny space between them, filling it with words he has always left unspoken, “I think that you are beautiful, inside and out. There’s nothing in the world more beautiful than you, and I love everything about you. I love it when you talk on and on and on about anything and everything that you like. I love it when you laugh, with those twinkles in your blue eyes. I love it when you recite poems and quote plays and novels while you are drunk, with that giddy slur in your voice. And that’s just a start. I can write songs and poems and bloody sonnets about everything I love about you, Aziraphale, if that’s what it takes for you to believe me. I promise you, you are perfect the way you are, and you deserve the best things in the whole world.”

When the words leave him, Crowley is surprised to realize the more he talks, the braver he feels. He speaks the truth, nothing but the truth. He wants Aziraphale to see himself through his eyes, wants him to realize how beautiful he is, how treasured he is, how Crowley loves him more than anything. It pains him to hear what Aziraphale says next, “You are only saying that because you don't know everything about me.” His voice is raw, trembling, torn between hope and self-doubt.

“Well, I know you are a bit of a bastard, which makes you even more adorable. I love it when you quote outrageous prices on those lovely plants and flowers of yours to prevent someone you don’t like from buying them. And I still love you even though I know you abuse those puppy eyes towards me on purpose on multiple occasions.” Aziraphale stutters indignantly at this, and if it’s possible to grow redder than a tomato, he achieves it. “But you are right, I don’t know everything about you. Yet.”

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth and kiss it - the inside of his wrist, his palm, his nails, his knuckles. He says between kisses, “So let me know everything about you, Aziraphale. Let me see all of you, all of your flaws and insecurities and imperfections. Because I want to share them with you, your pain and your fear and your sorrow. Your everything.” He cradles Aziraphale’s quivering hand in his, “Please, let me?”

“I don’t know, Crowley.” Aziraphale sobs, his eyes glistening with tears. “I don’t know if--”

Crowley kisses him again to shush him, then pulls him into his arms, letting Aziraphale rests his head on his shoulder. “It’s alright, angel. I’m here.” He kisses Aziraphale’s ear, his hair, any part that he can reach. “Whenever you need me, I’m always here.” Aziraphale clings onto him and weeps. Patting his back soothingly, Crowley lets him cry until his body stops shivering and his sobbing quiets down. Then they continue to silently hold onto each other, reveling in each other's warmth and proximity for as long as possible before finally pulling apart with great reluctance.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says with red, swollen eyes, “I’m afraid I have made a terrible mess of myself.” Crowley doesn't say anything and helps him wipe the tears and snot off his face.

“You look exhausted. Do you want to rest a little?” Crowley inclines his head towards the direction of his bedroom. 

Aziraphale looks like he’s about to refuse, but then his expression shifts. Softer, serene. “Yes,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “I would like nothing more.”

So Crowley leads Aziraphale to his bedroom. It’s still messy like when he left it, all the pillows haphazard and the sheets crumpled, but Aziraphale doesn’t say anything about that. Crowley helps him strip down to his shirt and pants, then Aziraphale slides into Crowley’s bed, like he belongs there. His pale blond hair and fair skin are a striking contrast against the dark sheet, like a cloud has decided to lay down on Crowley’s bed. He lifts the blanket for Crowley to get in besides him, which Crowley gladly does. Aziraphale rolls right into Crowley's arms, easily and willingly. The fact that Aziraphale trusts him this much makes Crowley’s heart leap. Crowley wraps himself around Aziraphale’s soft body, holding him as close as he can.

“‘s alright?” asks Crowley.

“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale sighs with relief, “Thank you.”

They fall asleep, every inch of their bodies pressing together, perfect like two halves of a whole. It’s a dreamless sleep. When Crowley opens his eyes, Aziraphale is still there, entangled with him. He’s awake, and probably have been awake for quite some time, watching Crowley sleep with soft endearment on his face. It seems suspiciously like a scene straight out of Crowley's dreams. Crowley blinks, trying to convey a simple groggy _ 'what?' _ \- precisely like that, with only one question mark. Aziraphale understands regardless.

“You really do look lovely in your sleep, my dear.” answers Aziraphale with a soft smile, and kisses him on the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to write the spicy part then I got lazy. I also ran out of sacrifices for Satan. I might add it either as a chapter or a separate story, if I can actually work up the motivation and inspiration to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

To the surprise of no one and the exasperation of everyone, it took another week for them to completely get back together, because everytime they think about each other, both of them immediately remember what happened - Crowley, his embarrassingly cheesy confession; and Aziraphale, how he cried like a 3-year-old in Crowley’s arms. They then become overwhelmingly flustered like teenagers with their first crush, and want to throw themselves out of the nearest window. They still have trouble looking at each other in the eyes for quite some time after.

But all’s well that end well.

Anathema has officially announced her engagement with Newton - she has proposed under a beautiful full moon, and he has accepted, with no threat of curses and dark magic involved. They haven’t yet scheduled the wedding because Anathema wants to take Newt back to America with her to meet her family, and according to her, to consult a certain auntie ‘Agnes’ about this union because it’s her family tradition, or something - Crowley wasn’t really listening at the time because he was busy daydreaming about Aziraphale in a wedding suit, or- or a wedding gown. (Later, he used all of his free time and formidable design skills - quite justifiably, he says - to photoshop Aziraphale into one.)

Aziraphale has started to move their relationship forward, albeit slowly, but he tries regardless, and Crowley deeply appreciates his efforts. There are still underlying problems with Aziraphale’s inferiority complex that surfaces every now and then, which Aziraphale does his best to overcome, and Crowley does his best to help Aziraphale work through it. He has started to collect psychology books to read on the matter. 

As the leaves change color and the days shorten, they start holding hands in public. It happens rather naturally and smoothly: Aziraphale wants to take a stroll in St.James Park, and Crowley wants whatever Aziraphale wants, so off they go. Aziraphale even brings some bread to feed the ducks. 

It’s a chilly day. Crowley’s hands and feet are always colder than the average person, so he has his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans, which doesn’t actually help much - they are shallower than a dry seabed and he can barely fit his _ fingers _in there, let alone the rest of his hand. Aziraphale takes a look at him, then very casually grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers and stuffing their clasped fists into the pocket of his coat. 

Crowley is almost swooned by his boldness. He so wants to grab Aziraphale by the collar and kiss him stupid. Instead, he says, “Do you think these ducks might get full of themselves because people feed them bread everyday? They certainly look full of themselves. For all they know we might as well be their slaves.”

“They are _ ducks _, Crowley. They can’t get full of themselves.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes exasperatedly. His cheeks are tinted pink. “Obviously.”

“_ Obviously. _ ” mimics Crowley, “But angel, what do _ you _ know about ducks? What do _ we _ know about ducks, actually, when neither of us _ are _ one?”

And so they continue bickering, hand in hand, unaccountably pleased that they didn’t make total fools out of themselves over something like _ holding hands in public _.

(After this event, Crowley suddenly has amnesia and forgets entirely about the existence of gloves, which are fine, really. Who needs gloves when he has Aziraphale hold his hand all the time and rub the warmth into his fingers? Who need gloves when he can press his cold palms against Aziraphale’s soft cheeks, or sneak them into Aziraphale’s pockets or under his clothes? As long as he continues to have this, Crowley frankly doesn’t give a damn about the fate of gloves. They can burn in Hell for all he cares.)

  


*****

  


They go out more often, and before any of them realizes, they are practically living in each other's pockets. Crowley starts to occasionally spend the night on Aziraphale's couch, and the early morning as well - they have breakfast together before Crowley has to dash off to work. At first they still put up a whole show about it - _“Can I drop by your place to work for a bit? I can’t seem to find any inspiration at mine” _and _“Will you come over? I've just got a new plant that I think will look wonderful in your flat”_ \- until one day, 20 minutes after dropping Aziraphale off at his shop, Crowley became overwhelmed with longing and wheeled back around. When Aziraphale opened the door for him with curiosity and concern all over his face, Crowley just blurted out _“I miss you” _like a completely hopeless pining idiot_._ Aziraphale, blessed him, had stuttered and blushed in the cutest way possible that Crowley couldn’t _not_ kiss him, right there at the entrance. Despite huffing and puffing all indignantly, Aziraphale still let him in.

(The next day, some of the neighbours came over, patting Crowley on the back and left them a ‘congratulations’ basket for some reason.)

*****

Anathema has made sure to deliver them the wedding invitation in person, so the print on it can only be explained as some sort of joke. In fact, Crowley is pretty sure she devised some kind of evil glee from it. Their invitation said:

_ “Together with their families _

** _Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer_ **

_ Request the pleasure of the company of _

** _Mr. Anthony J. Crowley and his angel, Mr. A.Z.Fell_ **

_ To celebrate their marriage at……..” _

“I’m taking back all the work I have done for her wedding.” Huffs Crowley, passing the invitation to Aziraphale over his shoulder. As payback for helping him and Aziraphale make up, he has gone to great lengths to make sure her favourite music band will play at the wedding, and he has paid for all the drinks. Flowers, too - they are taken from Aziraphale’s shop, of course. Aziraphale has insisted that he would do it for free, but were swiftly overpowered by both Anathema and Crowley’s opposition, so he has sold them at 50% off.

Aziraphale smooths out the invitation between his manicured fingers and reads it. “Well, I mean, she isn’t wrong, per say. I am _ your _‘angel’, aren’t I?” 

Crowley almost drops his cup of tea - almost, because it belongs to one of Aziraphale’s favourite sets, therefore breaking it would have made Aziraphale upset with him. Chuckling at his reaction, Aziraphale leans down to place a quick peck on his cheek before going back to his flower arrangement, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. It takes a moment for Crowley to snap out of the trance and realize he has just been played like a fiddle.

*****

“No. No. No.” Crowley groans fervently, “Absolutely not!”

“Crowley, this is the third outfit I have tried on, and you still say no!” Aziraphale pouts, “What’s wrong with a tuxedo?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your tux if we aren’t already living in the 21st century and not Victorian era, which is when this thing was made, surely!” Crowley shakes his head, “Just go with me to get a new outfit, please! I’m begging you!”

Aziraphale eventually gives in after Crowley promises he’ll buy Aziraphale’s favourite truffles afterwards. Crowley takes him to an extravagant shop where all the employees wear the same kind of professional smile and politeness that makes Aziraphale feel like he’s a sheep being led to slaughter. 

“My dear, isn’t this rather excessive?” says Aziraphale, clinging to Crowley’s hand nervously. 

“Just trust me, angel.” Crowley gives him a lopsided grin, “Come on. I’ll show you.”

After shuffling through the whole store with the grace of a serpent in its natural habitat, commanding people left and right like he owns the place, and some consultations with the tailor, Crowley sends Aziraphale away to the changing room with an armful of clothes.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” 

“No,” says Crowley, nudging him inside, “Get in. We don’t have all day, angel.”

He closes the door behind them. Aziraphale eyes him incredulously. 

“I’m just here to pick out which set of shirt, tie, waistcoat goes with which set of suits.” Crowley waves his hand dismissively. “Here, try these first.” He hands Aziraphale a shirt and a pair of pants before turning his back against the other man, giving him some privacy. 

“Right.” Somehow, Aziraphale’s voice is a bit throaty. “Better get a wiggle-on, then.”

Pulling out his phone, Crowley keeps his eyes glued to the game screen. It’s not like he doesn’t want to look - he is _ dying _to take a look - but he isn’t sure if he can hold himself back if he does. Although he has had way too many filthy fantasies about Aziraphale in compromising positions, he isn’t going to betray Aziraphale’s trust and fuck up this whole relationship like that.

(Taking a peek over the corner of his eye at some very, very nice calves with sexy sock garters in the mirror though, that isn’t really betrayal, is it?)

“Are you done?” Crowley asks when the faint rustling noises of fabric cease.

“Yes. You can turn around now.”

Crowley assesses the outfit with a thoughtful pout. He pulls a navy waistcoat and a baby blue tie with an abstract pattern out of the pile of clothes. “Put these on, with the jacket, too.”

“A tie?” Aziraphale says, totally scandalized.

“Well, a tie _ is _ standard.” Crowley sighs, “Just try them on, please!”

The result is pretty decent, if Crowley dares to say so himself. The sky blue suits and white shirt paired with wide blue eyes and pale blonde hair makes Aziraphale practically beam with a joyous innocence; the dark navy waistcoat and striking tie draw the eyes to his lovable form. He looks more adorable than ever. Crowley feels like a pair of white wings is about to materialize on his back at any moment.

“Is it weird?” Aziraphale twists around anxiously, checking himself in the three-way mirror.

“It’s not weird, angel. It’s called fashion.” Crowley grins, “You look charming.” 

Aziraphale blushes. 

“Come on, try the other ones.” Crowley has picked four suits for Aziraphale. While the first one has been a resounding success, he isn’t going to settle for anything less than the best. 

Unfortunately, the second one is a mistake. Aziraphale loves the tartan jacket though (of course he does), and pouts when Crowley brushes it off. 

“How much does one of these suits cost, anyway?” Aziraphale asks as he shimmies into the third pants, which is a dark grey pinstripe.

“It doesn’t matter. Consider it my gift.” Crowley says, typing away on his phone. He isn’t going to tell Aziraphale that they cost several hundred quid. That will freak the hell out of the man and erase any chance of him accepting it, then Aziraphale will wear one of his formal outfits to the wedding and Crowley isn’t sure he will have enough time to murder all of those that dare to laugh or leer at his angel, let alone hide their bodies.

Aziraphale stares doubtfully as Crowley passes him the tie. “Just trust me. The faster we get done with this, the quicker you can get those lovely truffles, angel.” says Crowley, taking a step back to appraise Aziraphale, “No, still not quite right. Try the last one.”

The last one is Crowley’s favourite: A deep blue suits that he knows will bring out Aziraphale’s smile. 

“I still don’t see what the fuss is all about,” pouts Aziraphale as he finishes doing up the zip of his trousers. 

Crowley turns around, and the sight makes him grin. He could already picture it perfectly inside his head, and he knows with a profound clarity that this is the one.

“Just trust me, angel.” Crowley croons and turns Aziraphale away from the mirror. He doesn’t miss how Aziraphale shivers ever so slightly under his hands when he smooths the shirt down over his shoulders and adjusts the buttons on his chest. The fabric matches the color of Aziraphale’s eyes - a beautiful pale blue. It melts over Aziraphale’s form like a second skin, revealing the subtle swell of his pecs and the chubbiness around his middle that Crowley will die to sink his hands in. He feels hot under the collar.

“Tie?” Maybe it’s Crowley’s imagination, but Aziraphale sounds a little breathless.

“Bowtie, actually.” Crowley dangles it in front of Aziraphale who sighs with relief. It doesn’t come pre-tied, but Aziraphale knows perfectly what to do. Crowley watches the adept movements of his hands with fascination, wondering idly how pulling it loose would feel like.

He holds up the waistcoat for Aziraphale to put his hands through, and has to take several controlled breaths at how tightly it hugs Aziraphale over the ribs and waist. He wants to run his hands down Aziraphale’s back, up around his sides, groping his chest, then--

_ Not now. Not now. _

When Aziraphale finally puts on the jacket, it’s really too much. 

“_ Oh _.” Aziraphale gasps, eyes widening in the mirror. For the first time, the sight of himself takes his breath away. 

Crowley steps back so Aziraphale can fully take in his image in the mirror: how the jacket clings to him in all the right places, showing off the curves of his back and hips which usually hidden by layers of clothes; the pants compliments his legs and drape lusciously over his thick thighs. The pinstripe shirt and bowtie gives a soft, friendly charisma to the whole outfit. He looks--

“Gorgeous.” says Crowley, voice hoarse. Crowley’s hands _ ache _with the need to touch him. “Let me-can I--”

“Yes,” was Aziraphale’s trembling answer before he is spun around and captured in a hungry kiss that lasts until they have to part for breath.

“Do you see it now?” Crowley asks softly with heated, half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. He sneaks a hand around Aziraphale’s lower back and pulls their bodies flush against each other.

Aziraphale gazes into his eyes, and the desire inside them makes him quiver from head to toe. He has always known that Crowley wanted him, of course. Despite his best efforts, everytime Crowley has looked at him like that - full of wants and adoration, there’s just this insistent, vicious little voice in the back of his mind that whispers, ‘_ Why me? Why me? Why me?’ _He always tries to rein it in. It’s not real, and as Crowley says, is an unhealthy way to view oneself (they have read all the books Crowley collected about that together). But sometimes he can’t stop it from bursting out of him. Crowley- bless him- always tries his best to help Aziraphale whenever it happens. His sweet, comforting words would make it quieter, but it never goes away completely. Countless times he has stood in front of the mirror, trying to find out just what Crowley could possibly see in him...

He sees it now.

“Oh Crowley,” He can’t. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to tell Crowley just how much this means to him. How it feels to be loved and wanted and doesn’t have to question why and whether he deserves it. He feels lightheaded, his heart hammering in his ears. “Crowley, my dear, I lo-…”

Crowley kisses him before he can finish, and Aziraphale responds in kind. He isn’t quite sure how much time they spend snogging in the fitting room: Crowley just seems to be unable to stop kissing him and touching him all over - not in the sexual ways, more like he just wants to touch Aziraphale, just to feel him, all of him. Aziraphale leans into him, not a flick of self-doubt in his mind. It just feels…right. He knows he's safe here, in Crowley’s arms, with Crowley’s lips caressing his. Safe. Loved. Wanted.

“You can’t just do that everytime, you know.” Aziraphale says as they finally manage to stop kissing for a moment.

“It’s embarrassing when you say _ ‘that’ _. It makes my heart do all the ridiculously mushy squeezy things in my chest and makes me want to slide under a table.” Crowley waves his hands for emphasis. “And you know it!”

“It’s not embarrassing for me. I like saying it. How else are you going to get used to it?” Aziraphale smiles and pulls Crowley down for another kiss, indulgent and sweet - this Crowley doesn’t complain about. With a voice that is barely a whisper, Aziraphale murmurs into his mouth, “I love you.”

“Nghhh.” says Crowley.

Aziraphale finds him irresistibly adorable.

*****

The ceremony is sweet, held out in an open field underneath a huge canvas and several small tents. Anathema wears a simple gown of deep moss green and her own handmade jewelry. She holds Newton’s hand and they gaze into each other’s eyes with such sickeningly soppy devotion that it makes Aziraphale melt and Crowley gag dramatically. As the bride’s best friend, Crowley is to say a few words as well. He delivers his speech with style and the wicked humor that they both love about him. Half way through it, Aziraphale pulls out a handkerchief and starts to dab it at his eyes. When Crowley returns to his seat, he wordlessly takes Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale looks at him like he’d have kissed Crowley if there had not been a spectacle around them.

Crowley waits until Anathema wraps her hands around Newton and pulls him down to meet her lips. As the crowd stands up to clap and cheer, overshadowing them, he quickly steals a kiss from Aziraphale. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chides indignantly, but he continues to hold Crowley’s hand. He only releases it when Anathema practically throws the bouquet into their faces.

As Crowley predicted, Aziraphale looks irresistible_, _earning himself a considerable amount of distinctly dreamy sighs and covetting glances everywhere he goes. It’s like every blasted person in five miles radius has suddenly appeared to fawn over Aziraphale, desperately vying for his attention. Crowley spends most of the reception to vigorously fend people off and away from Aziraphale. Completely oblivious, Aziraphale continues being his usual self, sweet and pleasant towards anyone who strikes a conversation with him. Crowley turns his back for a moment to fetch them more champagne, and when he turns around a tall young man with dark hair has already took advantage of the situation and is chatting Aziraphale up with clearly _indecent_ intentions on his face.

Bristling, Crowley not-so-subtly slides in between them, interrupting their conversation. 

“Here, angel, I got you some more champagne.” He practically purrs, using his most seductive voice. Without missing a beat, Aziraphale smiles, taking the drink from his hand. “Thank you, my dear.” 

“You are…?” Confusion and polite annoyance is evident in the young man’s voice.

“Oh, let me introduce you two. Crowley, this lovely young man is Raymond Wells. Gardening is his hobby and he is very impressed with the flowers display I have done for the wedding.” Crowley makes sure to give the man his most toothy smile. “Mr. Wells, this handsome gentleman is Mr. Anthony J.Crowley, my beloved.”

By someone’s mercy, Crowley manages to not choke on his champagne, but it’s a very close thing. Aziraphale - the perfect picture of utter innocence - beams at the faces of both flabbergasted men, and weaves his fingers through Crowley’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Later, after young Wells has scuffed away in disappointment, Crowley says, “You can’t just catch me by surprise like that.”

“Well, you could always kiss me everytime I do that.” Aziraphale says, obviously unbearably pleased with himself, putting a piece of cake in his mouth.

He’s such a little bastard and Crowley is hopelessly, terribly, completely smitten with him.

*****

While Anathema and Newton shares their first dance, Crowley and Aziraphale enjoys the wedding and the company of each other. Crowley doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s eyes earnestly following the newlyweds’ movements across the dance floor - Newton is a little clumsy on his feet, but Anathema looks perfectly happy and content with his performance. As they end it with a kiss and the song changes into that of a slow dance, Crowley reaches out his hand towards Aziraphale.

“Shall we?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and his smile makes Crowley’s heart falter. “With pleasure, my dear.”

They gently sway to the music. He likes how his hand rest on the small of Aziraphale’s back, likes the way their fingers entwine perfectly. He likes the way Aziraphale is looking at him too. 

“I know this song,” Aziraphale whispers to him, then starts humming quietly to the lyrics, so quietly it’s impossible for anyone but Crowley to hear him.

_ “Love me tender, love me sweet _

_ Never let me go _

_ You have made my life complete _

_ And I love you so” _

Sliding his arm around Aziraphale, Crowley leans in closer, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He breaths in Aziraphale’s scent - sunshine and flowers and vanilla and champagne. Their chests pressed against each other, two hearts pulse silently and contentedly as their beats mingle into one, singing the same tune. Time slows, and the world stills. Aziraphale’s voice continues dripping into his ears like warm honey, sweet and soothing.

“_ Love me tender, love me true _

_ All my dreams fulfill _

_ For my darling I love you _

_ And I always will” _

Crowley closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of Aziraphale’s pleasantly warm body in his arms. There’s nowhere else he would rather be.

*****

Crowley drives Aziraphale back and escorts him inside the shop to make sure everything’s alright (which is a blatantly weak excuse that none of them is going to point out). They sit together on Aziraphale’s couch so Crowley can rest a little before driving back to his place, Crowley's head on Aziraphale's shoulder and Aziraphale’s hand resting lightly on his knee in a comfortable silence. Although his eyelids feel heavy - either from sleepiness or from the comfort of being close to Aziraphale, or a combination of both - Crowley isn't that tired. He's just drawing it out so they can spend a little bit more time together.

“My dear, it is terribly late, and you must be exhausted after the trip.” Aziraphale finally speaks up, “Why don’t you just spend the night here?”

Crowley still isn't sure how Aziraphale manages to do that to him all the time. _ That _ being tempting and suggestive while he doesn't mean to. He makes the mistake of stealing a glance at Aziraphale - he looks absolutely stunning, bowtie loose and the top button of his collar is undone, showing a gleam of his pale neck. Almost ethereal with the way the light wrapping around him, drawing tasteful shadows on the shape of his face. His whole being is practically begging Crowley to stay, and Crowley knows if he does, he might do something that he’s _ really _going to regret.

“Your couch is terrible, angel.” He says, quickly averting his gaze. It’s the truth. As often as Crowley would like to spend the night at Aziraphale’s place, his couch is an absolutely dreadful thing to sleep on. Besides the fact that it might have been made from a kind of material that is supposed to look like cloth but are actually concrete, Crowley can’t find any comfortable position for his long legs. 

“Just come to bed, then.”

Crowley almost falls back in shock, suddenly feeling like the couch has just been pulled out from under him. He asks as calmly as he possibly could, “You mean, you have a-a guest bedroom for when yo-your assssitants staying over?”

“There is no guest bedroom,” Aziraphale looks at Crowley like he’s a little bit slow, “And my assistants never stay over.”

“OK. That’s it!” Crowley shakes his head, “You are drunk, obviously. Off to bed you go before you says something even more ludicrous!”

“My dear, I am _ not _that drunk. Just like when I wasn’t that drunk when I first kissed you. I know perfectly what I was, and am, talking about.”

Crowley feels faint. It took _months _for them to get to first base, and after Crowley found out why, he has willingly accepted that yes- no matter how slow it is- they are doing this at whatever speed Aziraphale is comfortable with. They have only became openly intimate in public not that long ago - as in, holding hands and gazing at each other like they are the only ones exist in the whole world while everybody else around them silently prays to whoever will listen that _‘please get a room already we can’t take anymore of this’_. Both of them are still trying to overcome the embarrassment they feel when kissing around other people. Crowley still can’t stop getting flustered whenever Aziraphale professes his love, no matter how quietly he does it. He also hasn’t even spent that much time on Aziraphale’s couch (seven nights, but not in a row. Not like he has been counting or anything). And now suddenly Aziraphale is… suggesting what he infers he’s implying? The casual way he drops the goddamn bomb, too, like Crowley is the one being ridiculous here. Crowley thinks he’s about to have a heart attack.

Taking a look at his face, Aziraphale leans closer and cups Crowley’s cheeks with warm, tender hands. “And you keep saying I am the one thinking too much.”

Crowley wants to say something smart, something cool, maybe something suave, but all that manages to escape him is, “Mghh.” He thinks his brain might have fried.

“You have been so wonderfully patient with me, my dear,” murmurs Aziraphale, in a way that Crowley knows he has thought about this over and over, has rolled the words on his tongue multiple times, and has come to a decision, “I’m sorry that it took so long, but I think… I think I’m ready to go _ somewhere else _ with you, now.” _ Somewhere private and dark where many embarrassing words can finally come out in hushed whispers and lonely wandering hands can finally do more than just weave into each other. _

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Crowley to find his voice. “Are you--” he rasps, breathless, “Are you absolutely sure, angel?”

Aziraphale looks at him - _ God _, the way Aziraphale is looking at him. Like he's something marvelous - extraordinary and beyond compare. Like he's the world. 

Crowley wants to shield himself from the intensity of that gaze and bask in it all at once.

“Of course. I’ll go anywhere with you, Anthony,” says Aziraphale, tender and true and can’t be any surer, “Anywhere you want to go, my dearest.”

“Oh.” Crowley says, eloquently, because right here in a flower shop in Soho - filled by everything Aziraphale loves (including Crowley), surrounded by flowers that never seem to wilt and plants that sway subtly without any wind - in that one terrifying, stunning, breathtaking moment, Crowley _ sees _ Aziraphale, all of him, his heart laid bare with all its flaws and insecurities and imperfections. Beautiful, whole, splendid. Crowley can’t breath, _ oh _ he can’t breath - helpless, overwhelmed at the face of this, of Aziraphale’s love, overflowing the spaces between and around them. 

It is in that moment that Aziraphale’s lips meet his, soft and slow and firm, and Crowley feels life being breathed into him, miraculous and anew. So he takes it in, all of it, desperately, greedily, because he suddenly _can’t _\- it’s too much, _too much_ but oh he _wants_ and he _needs_ and he is going to _crack_ if they spend just a breath apart from each other, and Aziraphale, through all of it, opens his hand and let his fingers weave onto Crowley’s own, holding on tightly like an anchor.

When Crowley finally is able to stop kissing him for a moment, Aziraphale hums - a delightful, content sound - and smiles, the lovely crow feet around his eyes crinkle, a perfect picture of happiness. "Would you like to come to bed, love?"

*****

Crowley grudgingly wakes from an extremely pleasant dream - one that involves Aziraphale and a wedding gown and a lot of flowers and champagne - because the warm body next to him is stirring, trying to roll out of bed. Mumbling incomprehensible protests, he grabs it, pulling it flushed against him and throwing a leg around its middle for good measure.

"Anthony," Aziraphale sighs, managing to sound exasperated and adoring at the same time.

"Five more minutes." Crowley murmurs into his nape.

"You can sleep on. I need to go downstairs and open the shop."

"Can't." Crowley clutches him tighter, sighing blissfully at the feeling of his hands sinking into soft, plump flesh. "The bed is too cold without you."

"Oh, so I'm just your bed-warmer, is that it?" 

"Uh-huh." Crowley kisses his neck, "The best type of bed-warmer I can ask for."

Aziraphale laughs, and it takes fifteen minutes for him to wrangle himself out of Crowley's hold - who seems to have learned it from some kind of wily old serpent. Crowley makes a grumbling, distressing sound when Aziraphale finally manages to pull the last part of his body free, and looks up at him with round, pleading eyes (this he learns from Aziraphale). Sighing, but not entirely unwilling, Aziraphale perches on the bed and leans down to give Crowley a kiss, only to have the blanket swung over him and Crowley pounces on him, again, wrestling him down onto the bed.

"Noooooo---" Aziraphale wails theatrically, squirming as Crowley wraps himself around his body, pinning Aziraphale down with his body weight, "I have to go. I really have to--"

"Five more minutes." Crowley says, in a voice that means at least half an hour.

"Five more minutes." Resigned, Aziraphale says, in a voice that means five more minutes and maaaybe a half hour. Crowley grins, pleased, and places a kiss on his mouth. "I love you." 

Aziraphale smiles against his lips. “I love you, too.”

Those words taste like a promise of eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know I wanted to drag the posting days out just to torture all of you with Feels but it's against the rules so you should thank our organizers for it :))
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, the gorgeous artworks for this fic are created by the very talented [scribblepuffs](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com/) and [katiesimrell](https://twitter.com/katiesimrell/). You can also find scribblepuffs' instagram [here](https://www.instagram.com/scribblepuffss/).


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